


Get Thee to a Nunnery

by Oh_Snapcrackle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars The Force Awakens, star wars the last jedi
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dominance, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Knight Kylo Ren, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Ophelia & Ben Solo, Ophelia (Rey) AU, Ophelia/Kylo Ren, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Prince Ben Solo, References to Hamlet, References to Shakespeare, Rey is Ophelia, She wants to be a Nun, She wants to swear off men, Silence Kink, Slow Burn, Smut, Trust Issues, Trust Kink, ophelia - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-08-17 08:03:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_Snapcrackle/pseuds/Oh_Snapcrackle
Summary: *Ophelia(Rey) / Kylo Ren Crossover; Medieval Times; Hamlet SettingOphelia has but one choice to survive - she must fake her death and become a nun. Only her plans change when an enemy knight accidentally “rescues” her from drowning in the moors. Can Kylo Ren convince her to join him instead?If only she weren't so stubborn...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msdes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msdes/gifts), [adnwahsal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adnwahsal/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Ophelia AU is all thanks to msdes and adnwahsal. First to adnwahsal who directed me toward this concept, and then msdes who made such a tempting prompt. I hope this helps satisfy some of your hunger for an Ophelia / Kylo Ren crossover.
> 
> Note: This story is loosely based on the Ophelia novel written by Lisa Klein that has been adapted into the movie that stars Daisy. And it is loosely based off the events of Hamlet. It has been ages since I have read Hamlet (Shakespeare is NOT my wheelhouse), and I haven't had the chance to read Ophelia - so I apologize for any inaccuracies. Also, due to the nature of Hamlet and Ophelia, themes of mental illness and suicide are present (even if they are fake).
> 
> And thank you to msdes who made this beautiful moodboard for the story. You are the sweetest, Desiree. And a thank you to @cody-fern on tumblr for granting permission to use the smoldering Ophelia/Ben Solo manip in the moodboard.

 

 

_She has nothing. She wears flowers, never jewels in her hair._

_Then let them see flowers in my hair,_ she thinks as she rests on the bank of the moor. Slowly she undoes her hair, using her fingers to pull apart the wild braids she has fumbled through these last days. Braids built to look of nests and brambles, with sticks and thistles to add effect. All to paint a clear picture of her madness.

_Beauty turns men to beasts._

Gertrude’s words rattle inside her head. Louder they grow until they are the shrill omen of a banshee foretelling death. But her resounding, rebelling soul reaches above the clamor to wail back.

_And am I to accept these beasts and give in to their whims?_

Hisses as her fingers catch in her hair on a knot of frayed ribbon and dried rosemary. She tugs and winces at the bite to her scalp. But it is no pain compared to what she has endured these last weeks. Not since her husband descended into a cureless madness. Not when her father was killed by her afflicted husband, and her brother put to the task of murder.

_And I but a pawn in their game. The foolish girl that fell for the mad prince._

_But no more._ She thinks harshly, ripping at the rest of the braids until they are all undone. And with deft fingers does she weave again, this time with the flowers she loves well. Pansies. Daisies. Roses that prick and rue that tickle. And when she is done, she gives a sigh to the night sky and brushes away a tear.

With that she stands, back ramrod straight in her surety, and brushes at her dress before stepping to the edge of the pond. She closes her eyes as the water laps against her ankles before digging her feet into the mud so it will squish between her toes. One last time to feel these waters. To know their caress.

One last time to let them swallow her tears, as they have done all these years she has waded in their depths. By now half of it has to be filled with her own tears and sorrows. And perhaps, tonight, she will have enough to overflow the banks.

_They will strip you. They will judge you. And they will cast you to the fire._

_Then I will cast myself to the judgment of the waters. At least they know my truths._ She thinks and wades in a little further. She pulls out a vial and pops the stopper. The cork tumbles, rippling the surface before bobbing away as she descends. To her lips she brings the vial, tipping it back just as the waters reach her chest.

The poultice is thick and bitter and she forces herself not to cough when it hits her tongue. Makes herself chug it all down and then toss the bottle.

Swallows with a grimace.

And gently does she offer herself to the waters. Sinks until her feet no longer touch the bottom and she starts to float. Arms outstretched, welcoming the kiss of death - or just the brush of it.

 _This will be the last time I watch the heavens from this place_ , she thinks. And at the thought tears spring to her eyes. So she silently lets them slip to the waters, as the stars blur at the edges of her vision. And the potion begins exacting it’s toll, filling her veins with numbness. The water wraps around her, embracing what it has always welcomed.

 _Gertrude_ , she thinks as the last of her mind clings to reality, _I will make my own path. One without such beasts as men._

——

He should not have come this far inland.

Should not have gone past the depths of the moors.

But it appears he is in the favor of Lady Luck. Either Claudius is oblivious to the incoming invasion, or he is too prideful to think Prince Fortinbras’ advancement will be a challenge. Either way, he has yet to meet any form of resistance.

And he is close enough to Elsinore to smell the foulness of a city.

He supposes this may be an easier invasion than any of them considered.

Perhaps the news about contentions over the throne is true - that the newly crowned King Claudius and his nephew are fighting over the dead king’s seat. Or maybe the other rumors, the hushed rumors, are the true ones. Tales of a madness that sweeps the castle; an affliction preempted by the apparition of a murdered and vengeful king. Or a curse from the heavens for a brother marrying his husband’s wife. There are many such whispered conjurings.

_And wouldn’t that just make Elsinore ripe for the picking?_

He sighs, sitting back on his black horse to crack his back and soothe the ache in his legs. He has come all the way from Norway for this? Will there not be the chance to slide his blade through some flesh? To unleash the pent up rage that curdles just under his skin? Or better yet, the chance to finally let death slip into his soul and whisk him from his tortured existence?

No. It appears all he will find here will be mud and flowers that smell of ash.

He will never understand why Fortinbras would want this godforsaken land back.

But it is not his place to question his friend. Not the one that has taken him in all these years and given him a haven away from his destroyed homeland. A man that has given him purpose, even if it is a lonely road.

And Fortinbras, with only one other conquest under his belt, won’t trust another to scout Elsinore. There is a reason he trusts Ben, a cousin but still a foreigner, to assess his targets and help him plan an invasion.

He glances up at the night sky, noting the stars to calculate his location.

 _Not far from the castle, if I am gauging correctly._ He muses. He might need a slight course correct, otherwise, he might end up in the villages and increase his chances of being seen.

It is then that his horse lets out a whinny, and he pulls back on the reigns before he can tip into the pond. It's a small welling of water, thick with reeds and lilies. Not thick like the deeper moors he has trudged through over the last couple of days. No, this one is clear and well maintained. Loved.

He is about to turn his mount, to take off to the left when his eyes catch on a bit of drifting fabric. And despite the suspicious huff of his horse, he hops down. Quietly he pulls his sword from his sheath and creeps forward. Leans just over the bank and pushes back the thick reeds.

There is so much fabric. And it's not that of a man, like a soldier he thought might be lurking in the bushes. But fine woven. Delicate.

And then do his eyes rise, and follow, catching the paleness of a wrist and the lapping of water against…skin.

And hair. Red hair. Long and languishing in the water.

His heart stills, and before he knows what he is doing he is sheathing his sword and clambering through the water. Not a thought to the amount of noise he is making, but reaching and grabbing at silks and skin until he has a body in his arms.

 _Is she dead?_ He wonders, wrapping his arms around her best he can manage with all the fabric and hair that clings and wraps. Ignores the bite of thorns from woven roses and the nicks of the reeds. Takes a moment to unwind her fingers from the thick stems of lilies and reeds that hold her fast. He tugs, and eventually the plants give, snapping and crying out at the loss of their new companion.

It is then that he finds her legs and her back to slide his arms underneath. So he lifts her up, pillowing her against his chest and grunting as he trudges up the bank. Her wet skirts drip and cling to his clothes. Soak into him. Wrap about his legs and cause him to stumble.

But he pushes forward until he is out of the pond and can place her on the grass with a curse at the heavens.

 _What did I do to have this placed upon my path?_ He should walk away from this. If someone found him with a drowned woman…

Perhaps a murdered woman…

Or a suicide….

_Nothing good can come of this._

But his hands are pushing back her thick hair, despite the logic of his mind.

Only to have his traitorous hands still as her face is laid bare.

_What cruelty has God laid upon me now to put such a creature in my path?_

His fingers take a second to trace a cheek, and he leans in a little closer. Over her. Pushing back more and more hair and tossing away errant flowers that have withered in her dying.

_Cruel, cruel world to allow such a thing a horrid death as this._

And his fingers slip to her neck, just to be sure. Checking to see if there is a heart still beating, despite the stillness of her chest. Or the coolness of her skin.

For a moment, there is nothing.

No flicker of life.

Until there is the faintest of a beat. And perhaps, if he were not as skilled in healing wounded men as he has become all these wretched years, he wouldn’t have noticed.

But he does.

 _Idiot._ He curses and then starts to grab her again, shifting so she is back in his arms and stomps to his horse. Tosses her up and then climbs behind her, adjusting so he can ride without being too uncomfortable or her too bruised. Wraps one arm around her limp body and flicks the reigns.

_Foolish girl to play with her life like this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and notes are always appreciated. <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia wakes to meet her enemy and savior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you lovelies that left kudos and dropped notes, thank you! I sincerely hope you all enjoy this next little installment of our lovely Ophelia and her dark knight savior. <3

With waking comes a numbness that stretches from temples to toe tips. It clings, making eyes heavy and colors swirl as if she is looking up from the bottom of the lake to the glittering surface above. Variances of light and shadow flicker across her vision. And there is a pressure behind her ears and eyes. But ever so slowly does the haze lift. And with scant bits of clarity, she tries to move her limbs, only to find them encumbered. Panic seizes.

_Are the dead always so tethered by their funeral shrouds?_

A grunt and then does she twist in her wrappings. Finds her skin grows itchy where the shroud scrapes against her bare flesh and feels tears prick at the corner of her eyes. Discovers the only thing she can move is her head, and so she tips it to the side. Just rock and dirt. Earth. No flowers for her bed of rest. No wood slats for the funeral cart to carry her through the graveyard.

_Where is the silken gown? To where are the flowers that maketh my bed? Should my eyes be thus covered by the veil between worlds?_

Finds she is elsewhere than where she intended to be.

_Didst the poison rip me from my mortal coil?_

_Is this hell?_

For it must be. Sweat pours over her brow and the thickness of smoke lacing through the air makes her throat scratchy. There, too, is a dampness that tells of being underground. So she peers upward, seeking the sky and finds more slick and weeping rock. If she squints she can see the brush of shadows against the surface, dancing in a pattern she can’t divine. Winces as they appear to draw closer; mocking. Feels a chill press against her spine, unable to let it unwind against the constraints of her burial shroud.

_Tis the bowls of hell, surely._

_Is this to be my punishment for fleeing my lot in life? Am I to spend eternity bound and vulnerable to shadows?_

Demons dancing above. Smoke licking at her skin. Held fast to the earth.

 _Be still thy nerves._ She whispers in her head, tightly closing her eyes. _You are but phantasms of the poultice. I shall wake, and ye shall be gone._

She whispers this mantra to herself until her heart stills its rapid beating and anxiety wanes. And only when her breath has calmed, does she crack an eye and find the shadows are but illusions produced from flame. And with that fear alleviated does she turn her head in the other direction. Just a fire. Perhaps they are preparing her for the procession, and she miscalculated the timing of her potion? Any minute now they will find her and place her on the funeral cart to parade her through the graveyard. Or if they think her alive, should they have caught her fevered ramblings, then they are awaiting Claudius to come end her once and for all.

Cold seeps in at that thought, and she twists against her constraints. _Surely he would make it swift?_

 _But I am alive._ She tells herself. _Alive and with the chance of surviving._

But as she tips her head she finds the source of the shadows. A flickering campfire near the edge of a cavern. Somewhere nestled into the face of the earth and secluded from the eyes and ears of the outside world. Not the chapel or the undertaker’s shed. Not a cell. Nowhere she should be if she was back at the castle. But then her eyes settle on a towering figure. Massive as it devours most of her sightline and makes her trembles with a shock that makes her lips quiver.

_I was wrong. Death doth claim me. One sees more devils than vast hell can hold!_

For there is no denying the demon made flesh. Shrouded in a cloak of black, to which its tips bleed into the shadows, the massive creature huddles over the flame, stoking it. Hair made of curling, blackened smoke, pokes out from the tip of the cloak. And large, pale arms reach out to seek warmth. He spans so much of her vision, so much space, she is sure her lungs are losing air for surely there is not enough room for it to fit between them. And she must make some kind of noise to garner his attention, for he swiftly jerks to look over his impending shoulder. He shuffles and twists, just as a foul creature should. Then he starts to draw closer, one hand extending out. 

She tries to pull back, shuffling to get away from this creature with pale limbs and eyes hooded in night. Some creature from the pits of hell sent to drag her under or to roast her flesh. Either prospect makes her whimper, and curl in protectively the best she can. But the exertion is causing dots to slither across her vision. And her heart feels as if it will split her chest. It is then that she cries out in terror, a rending, high pitched hiss that gives the creature pause.

But so does her vision and her heart. And unconsciousness takes her.

——

The foolish girl is not well. She wakes and falls back into restless fits that permeate the cave with hisses and ramblings. Addled, he thinks. Perhaps it is the poison, and once it passes her illness shall abate. Then again, the very poison meant to save her from a befouled fate could have burned through her mind and left only slithers of sanity. There is even the chance that she was mad before she took the poison. The illness that grips the castle could have taken purchase before he plucked her from the reeds.

Only time will tell what shall be left of this girl.

Regardless, her fevered mutterings have given him some insight. She is of some importance in the courts. Not just a peasant. At least a handmaid that made an impression on a young prince. To that he wouldn’t be surprised. She is beautiful enough to turn any head, especially that of a prince used to having what he wants. And the way she speaks of this Hamlet with such reverenced sadness, he knows it is not unrequited. So lovers, then. There is mention of ghosts and a father’s death. Then the rest falls to babbling about hell, demons, and flames. And not much is to be gained in those moments. But he listens to it all.

Mad ramblings. Cries for a lost loved one. Fears for the life of a brother. Murders. Madness.

He supposes he has either made a dire mistake in saving this desperate girl or stumbled upon a promising source of intel.

At least, that is what he shall tell his companions should any of them learn he is nurturing the enemy back to health.

A whimper has him turning to watch her from the corner of his eye. He attempts no more, still stinging from the last time she woke and cowered in fear when he reached toward her. Eyes so wide and full of terrors. As if she imagined him one of these demons she rants about. And given the poultice she made, she probably does think him one. He smelled that foul drink, knows well it is made of some herbs that cause such visions. So he shouldn’t be insulted by her response to actions, but he is. Perhaps it has been too long since he has been around a woman. Or cared what one such being does in his presence. But she is exceptionally pretty and so clever to make such an effective potion as to fake her death. And perhaps it is in that choice, her decision to flee her life for another that strikes a chord inside his jilted heart. 

It only makes any sign of rejection sting all the more.

_I am but a fool for bringing her here. For attempting to help her. Save her, even._

With a sigh, he runs a hand through his hair. 

_At least our meeting has been fortuitous. Rumors of illness at the castle prove true._

Regardless of how this will end for either of them, he now has more information to relay. She made his job a little easier.

He tosses another look over his shoulder, assessing. Should her current state of incoherence hold, he can slip away for a few hours to pass along his intel. Upon return, she could be closer to being fully awake. Even if she does wake, she’ll be far too weak to make it far. 

And if she does make it far enough he can’t follow, then his predicament of what to do with her will be solved.

Yet, the thought of leaving her gives him pause. Is it the right thing to do? He has a duty to his liege and this siege above all else. But what if she was to wake and become frightened and confused? What if she grows worse? And if something happens to him what will become of her?

One glance at his horse and he makes his decision. Girl or not, his friend needs the information. He can’t allow a woman, no matter how tempting her face or bright her hair, to sway him from his duties. An army is awaiting his information. He can’t send them to their deaths because he spent time muddling through his own emotions about what to do with a pretty enemy girl.

But as he prepares to exit, he pauses to leave her water and half of his meal. Cooked rabbit and dried figs. A tea steeped for an hour with healing herbs. Ones to dispel fever and visions. And after placing them on the floor by her hands, he takes a second to brush away a single strand of her wild red hair. Feels her grimace and hiss, but she doesn’t cower. 

_She will be alive_ , he assures himself as he leans just a little closer to whisper.

“I shall not be long. Pray, don’t die on me.”

Then he is climbing through the entrance and saddling his horse. And into the woods he slips, past the withering trees and to the moors where he knows his men are waiting.

——

Her second full awakening comes with more awareness. The shadows all drift away until there is only dancing firelight over the cavern walls. The greater demon, too, has vanished. So she, with weakened hands, slowly pushes herself up. The fabric she took for her burial shroud she finds is nothing more than a thick set of wool blankets that smell heavily of horse and man. Musky and damp. But as they fall away, leaving her naked flesh exposed to the chill of the air, she quickly drags them back. 

_A vision. No demon, just a man._ She thinks back to that fresh hallucination of shadows bending around a figure that reached for her. How the terror lanced through her heart and tipped her to blackness.

A monstrosity of a man, surely. But a man no less. 

Taking a moment to look around, she finds the food and drinks he left at her side. Hesitates to reach for them, but her stomach grumbles and the tremble of her fingertips tells her it would be wiser to partake. She needs the energy for whatever is ahead. And should he plan to poison her, well, she has already faced death many a time over the past few days. Another brush surely won’t hurt.

It is decent, for traveling fare. Cooked rabbit and figs that are not inedible. And the tea, that one gives her pause, for she immediately recognizes the soothing aroma of ginger and other healing herbs native to the area. Had he picked them just for her? To heal her?

It is unsettling, that thought. A man that shows kindness, she has learned, never fares well. Her father, in his dying. Hamlet in his madness. And now this man, for which she knows nothing of, and his healing tea.

Once she is finished, she starts hunting for her clothes. For if he comes back, and surely he will, having no barrier but his wool blanket will only make her feel more vulnerable. And she guesses from the state of the fire, he has been gone for a time. It's starting to die out as if it hasn’t been stoked in hours. She finds her clothing not far from her makeshift pallet. All carefully hung on a string to dry, and only half so damp as they must have been when he pulled her from the lake. Quickly she dresses, leaving her bodice looser than usual to keep her stomach from churning. Laces up her shoes.

 _It will have to work for stumbling through the woods._ If she is lucky she might be able to find a road to the nunnery without tearing her clothing even more. She winces at the deep rip along the side, to which dead lilies and thickets of reeds cling. 

_I must look a state._ She mutters to herself as she starts assessing all the items. Finds only wood for the fire. All else has been taken.

 _Well, then, I will need shillings. A cloak for travel. Which means I will have to return to the edge of the castle._ She thinks, planning out her hasty exit and freezes.

Glances down at her ripped dress at the water flowers that are stuck in its weave.

_He pulled me from the waters._

Not Hamlet. Not Claudius. Not a knight of the castle or a handmaiden. Someone unknown.

The castle doesn’t know she took her life. And if there is no body…

She spins, grasping the wall as her vision swirls at the movement, but pushes forward. 

_How long was I under?_ And she peers around the entrance. Sees only night stretching. _A day? A night? A week?_

Are they searching for her? Would Claudius send men? Drag her back to the castle to die in the prisons? Or execute her for bewitching his nephew and turning him against his uncle in his besotted madness? Claim her witch and burn her before their people?

Could this man that saved her be one of his men?

This fear grips harder than any of the visions. Taking root and blooming. So when she hears a crunch, and a break of a twig it makes her jump. And without thought, she grabs the thing nearest, some skinny log for the fire, and presses herself to the wall of the entrance where the shadows embrace her. Closes her eyes and prays to God that he will not be aware. That she can knock him out long enough she can run away. 

_A hit to the head. That is all I require._

Then he is walking in. Unaware. Pauses just a few paces inside the cavern, the perfect spot for her knock him unconscious.

So she flings herself at him with a battle cry.

Surprised, but alerted, does he turn around and catch, effortlessly her arm. And squeezes while pushing her arm back and making her hiss in pain as the wood goes clattering to the ground. And next there is a hand about her neck and a wall behind her, and she is staring into a set of pitch black eyes. Deep these eyes, and so filled with dark and malice.

She shivers.

There is a hint of madness in these eyes, like someone in their head too much. Wild and untamed, and it makes her want to shrink back at the thought of her husband, of the darkness under his eyes and the haunts that filled them. Of the bitterness that nips away at him piece by piece, becoming lost to waves of retribution and whispers of vengeful ghosts.

But this is a different madness. This is a hardened, cold, punished madness that is rooted in reality. There is no denying he sees her, that he is aware of what is around him. He is not staring at ghosts. Nothing like the illness that has ripped at her husband. This man has different haunts that nip at his heels.

He presses in closer, and she tries hard not to flinch. Tries to hold his gaze though she wants to turn her head and look elsewhere.

“Is this how you treat someone that saved your life?”

And then he simply lets go. Tossing both hands back and holding them up in surrender. And his once heated gaze is now scandalized by this own actions, full of loathing for apparently having put a hand on a woman. She falls back then, sliding down the wall to the ground and gasping or breath. Her grasp on awareness acts again as if it wishes to leave as if this exertion and his violence have ripped the very life force from her veins. He steps back, giving her space. And everything he does, from the way his arms fall to his sides, the vulnerability of the curve of his mouth, to the hunch of his shoulders all give her the impression he doesn’t want her to feel threatened. 

“M’lady, I am sorry for my actions. I do not intend to hurt you. Thou surprised me. Do you need to rest? You do not look well.”

He makes no move toward her. Only watches with rapt attention as she tries to gather herself. 

“Why,” she gasps, unable to stop the question that bubbles to her lips. “Why did you pull me from the waters?”

It comes out with such bitterness that even she is astounded by her own rage. He too seems shocked, and a shadow flickers across his face. Those haunted eyes, the ones she saw when he held her by the neck to the wall are back. And he barks his words at her.

“So you can live, m’lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope I didn't choke you on flowery words and botched uses of archaic English. I tried to reach some kind of middle ground - never thought I would have to research how to properly use thee, thine, and ye. Oh, the things we do for fanfiction. ;)
> 
> As always, kudos and notes are LOVED. Next chapter is currently in the works if _you_ haven't fled for a nunnery, yet. <3
> 
> Oh, and if you love finding hidden references there are a couple of "Shakespearean bits" scattered throughout if you are up for the challenge. If you find one, drop me a note. Extra kudos if you know the source material. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you so much for your kind words and kudos. <3
> 
> Enjoy!

“Would that you left me in the water.” She spits out, gripping the wall and pulling herself up by what he knows to be sheer will. For her legs are shaking with effort, and her skin has a sickly cast. Were it not for the wall behind her, surely she would plummet to the ground. And though he knows she is not well, probably still under the influence of the potion, he feels bitterness rise. Fueled by the lack of thankfulness, by the rage that boils in her eyes for saving her life, it floods his veins. He knows his brow is furrowed and there is a nasty scowl pulling his lips back from his teeth.

“To let you drown?”

She stumbles then, legs finally giving so she crashes to the ground. He takes a step forward and then stops when she presses closer to the wall, shrinking away from him. So he stills, outstretched hand falling limply to his side. Even now, when she has a greater grasp on reality, she rebukes him. So he steps back and holds his hands out in supplication as if backing away from a feral creature.

“I needed but one person to think me dead.”

Her words are muffled and heavily laced with resignation and defeat. As if in her fall all of her venom has vanished. 

And then her eyes go wide before darting up to meet his in shock, realizing she said far too much.

He can’t keep the contempt from his tone when he bites back.

“Someone like your husband?”

“What does thou knowest of my husband?” She leans forward, eyes flashing.

“You speak of him enough.”

Hazel eyes narrow on him, though she falls silent. Then here eyes are sweeping over him in assessment. Where he comes from? Who are his affiliations? What business he has in Denmark? He can see it all flashing across her face as she scans his dressings, searching for a crest or designation. And when she finds none, and her eyes finally settle on the sword strapped to his side, does she finally speak.

“You are a soldier,” She whispers, understanding dawning, “But not for Denmark.”

He expects to see the flash of alarm ladies tend to express when in the presence of an unknown soldier. Especially an enemy. Soldiers have reputations. 

But this girl doesn’t bat an eye.

So he leans forward, letting his eyes hold hers as his mouth draws up in a smirk. “You are a very clever girl for one that nearly killed herself.”

Her pert lower lip gets sucked between her teeth, and she starts to chew. And the action draws his gaze down to them, making his blood quicken. He wonders what words she is holding back. Would they be harsh and cut at him? Or would it amuse him instead?

“And you are a fool of a man to save a woman that didn’t need saving.”

Cutting, he thinks as he is momentarily stunned. Watches with narrowed eyes and pursed lips as she pulls herself up off the floor and manages to stagger past him to gather her few possessions that are still drying. Piles them up in her arms. But as she starts to walk away, his heart starts to hammer and panic sets in. He doesn’t pull his intense gaze away even as she glances over her shoulder to see if he plans to stop her.

_What should I care what the lady does?_ His mind barks, but the rest of him is screaming that he offers to let her stay. She is unwell. She needs rest. He needs to heal her.

_I won’t see her again._

_Or I will find her in a grave._

But when she pushes past him at the entrance he doesn’t attempt to stop her. Instead, he steps to the side and lets her pass. Says not a word as she walks out into the thick downpour and her hair turns from the warmest of amber to the darkest of ruby. Just when he thinks this will be goodbye, she pauses and turns to look at him.

“Does thou not stop me?”

Hold her gaze, he makes a deep bow.

“The lady does as she wills.”

Something crosses her face, surprise he thinks before she turns away.

It should be the last he says to her; to the woman that cursed him for saving her life. But the next words come unbidden, tumbling from his tongue before he can bite it quiet.

“But if the lady wishes to stay until the rain passes, or should change her mind, she is welcome to return.”

She doesn’t bother to look back. Instead, she melts into the woods, skirts weaving into shadow until even her ruby hair is snuffed from his sight.

_Madwoman_ , he thinks as he turns back to grab the log that she intended to bludgeon him with; tosses it to the flames. She surely can’t last long in the woods with that dress.

—————

A few hours by foot and she will be at her stash of shillings and traveling fare before anyone is the wiser. And if she is so lucky, sticking to the outcroppings should keep her hidden from the watchmen that travel the roads at night. While it adds more time to her escape, traveling for four days without food or money would not be wise. And now that she is unsure of her predicament since her plot to fake her death is foiled, she must be sure to move in haste.

If only that soldier hadn’t pulled her from the waters. 

At the thought of him, unbidden, she shakes off the vision of him in all those black clothes and his haunting eyes. Pushes forward through the brush, and curses as her skirts cling and rip with every twig and bramble. By the time she makes it to the nunnery, she won’t have a stitch of clothing to her name. She grabs at the fine fabric and yanks, ignoring the rending noise that echoes through the forest as she trudges along. Occasionally she stops to glance past the canopy for glimpses of the night sky and the stars that lead the way. Not until she is sure she is still on track, does she move again.

This continues for an hour. And it is only then that she realizes she is no longer alone in the woods, for all has fallen silent including the hoots of the owls and the skittering of rodent feet. So she stills, too, much like a deer that has caught its predator’s scent. When the next twig snaps, she takes off at a wild sprint, gathering her skirts up to her hips. Branches smack at her face as she runs blindly through the woods, drawing blood that trickles down her brow and into her eyes. But she keeps going, not daring to look back as the snaps behind her grow louder and there are shouts of men.

“The girl! Through there!” She hears a booming voice, and her heart is hammering in her chest as she jumps a downed log and makes a sharp turn to the left in hopes of throwing them off her trail.

“Witch! Face thou fate!”

There must be at least two on horseback she thinks, dodging and weaving. Her skirts are near tatters now, and her hair is ripped from her scalp. And just as she makes another sharp turn, she realizes too late it is down a hill. Her ankle rolls, and with a hiss, she tumbles wildly down the slope. Leaves and brush kick up around her as her legs flip over her head, topsy-turvey over and over until she hears a sickening crunch as she slams into a rotten log. It groans in protest but breaks her fall. And with tears welling in her eyes, she curls in on herself as pain lances through her arm.

“I thought I heard a -“ 

She holds her breath, not daring to look up from the ground. As if she can turn invisible to their searching eyes. Hears the neigh of their beasts, and a few clipped words.

“The lady must have gone the other way,” One of them finally announces, and she feels the pressure in her chest give. 

“Best make haste. The King is eager to see her drown for bespelling his nephew mad.”

Their words drift off into silence as they follow a path she did not take, and then does she let her breath out. Winces at the sharp pain in her arm. With a sigh, she cradles it closely to her chest and peers over the top of the log to see she has a long way down to the road below.

——

When she is out of sight he retreats back into the cavern where the warmth of the dying fire draws his attention. Quickly he shucks his wet clothing until he is left with only his pants. Takes the other items and hangs them where her dress once hung and hopes they will dry in time for the campaign tomorrow. The thought of starting the siege in wet wool making him wince. So he settles by the fire, helping stoke the little flame back into a flickering blaze that heats his chilled limbs. With a sigh he leans back, grabbing his blanket and tucking it behind him as a pillow. Rests his head on his arms and lets his eyes trace the patterns of flickering firelight across the cavern ceiling. 

Of course she wouldn’t stay. He was an idiot for entertaining the idea. She didn’t know him. And she has obviously suffered at the hands of others. What good would it do her to trust an unknown soldier who plans to invade her homeland?

Though, the fact she didn’t at least thank him makes his heartache. One second in his presence and she was ready to run.

It couldn’t have helped that he held her against a wall by her neck.

He shifts against the floor, stretching out his legs. If things had gone differently…

Just closing his eyes brings her to the forefront of his mind. As if she is burned into his vision. But this time she is thankful for his kindness in pulling her from the waters. How instead of lashing out, she offered to show her thanks. His cheeks flush at the possibility of it, no matter how improbable, as he imagines what she could do to show her thanks. How her red hair would look spilling over his lap. How the lady’s hazel eyes would peer up at him with a faint flush of desire.

There are other flashes. Ones where he offers to take her from this mortal hell that she desperately wishes to flee. A life where he talks her into sneaking off with him, or he is able to drag her back to his home. Imagines waking with her bright red hair spilling over his pillows in the dawning morning light.

Fantastical flashes of what could have been.

And for a second he entertains the idea of grasping one of them and letting it overtake his senses. It has been so long since he has given in to his baser desires. And just before the battle he could use the release. Let it wipe his mind. Feels a twitch at the prospect and the flood of positions that have been buried in his subconscious now surge to the forefront. Ones that he saves for moments such as this, though the faceless woman that brings him his shattering end is now replaced with hair as red as flames and eyes with the warmth of the earth.

But he pulls back before the dreams sweep him away. Snaps his eyes open and takes a deep breath. If he drowns in it, he knows it won’t erase her. He won’t slake his lust but give it fodder to grow and fester. It will take him months to cull her from his mind should he give in. So he shifts to a more uncomfortable position and forces his eyes to the flames. Thinks of what is to come tomorrow when the sun starts to set and his men begin their advances. 

So when he feels the shift in the atmosphere and his instincts make him glance up over the flames, he has to blink twice. For surely this is his imagination that has brought upon this specter of the girl?

A figment, she must be.

For standing in the entrance, is the girl. Her eyes are as wide as any snared rabbit, and her skin is speckled with blood. And what skirts she has left are sheared leaving long, pale legs visible to his gaze. But those too are spattered with cuts and droplets of drying blood.

It is only when she takes a hesitant step forward and speaks that he knows she is real.

“Dost thy offer still stand?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Sorry to leave you on a bit of a cliffhanger. So what did you think? Will Ben make some progress in wooing her in the next chapter, or is Rey going to stay the stubborn, focused woman we know her to be? Let's just say tensions start to rise. 
> 
> Kudos and notes are always appreciated. I love hearing from you guys. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little warmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, lovelies, for the sweet comments and kudos. Happy Thanksgiving to those that celebrate (and if you don't, my thanks to you for reading). Enjoy. <3

She must wake him from a slumber. At the sound of her words his hooded eyes snap up to peer up from his tangled mass of hair. Blinks once. Then twice. For one unchecked moment, his eyes, which are already so dark and brooding, are laden with hunger. 

It is _the look_. The look of a man that wants a woman.

And then he starts to gather himself from the floor, running a hand through untamed locks. Trying to make his untidy appearance less abrasive.

Unwittingly, she steps further into the warmth of the cave.

His eyes sweep over her, pausing on exposed legs and the tatters of her dress. Then up they go, over her breasts and to her torn sleeves. Then her neck and face, only to pause and knit a brow in concern.

She can’t help but return such a look, for it is impossible not to rake her eyes over his unclothed body. How could she not let her eyes trace the sureness of his jawline and the slope of his shoulders? Or to take in the breadth of his torso, well honed. Not like other soldiers she has known. And down further, until even she has to turn her head to hide the blush that covers her cheeks. Thanks the heavens he at least wears pants.

She has seen other men in such a state. But the only time she has been in such close proximity and felt such a rush was in the presence of her husband. That was but months ago when she first felt it. Assured it was more than just lust that made her skin prickle and heat. Made her legs feel less steady and her heart race so. This feeling, this desire that floods her veins now, is so similar to the fever over Hamlet that it makes the guilt curl in her chest. For what kind of woman is she to feel thusly about another man where her own husband, be he mad or not, is just a few miles away?

“You returned.”

His voice is husked. It is all he says, but there is a hopeful shine to his eyes. One that speaks of relief and happiness to see her.

“I-“ Her mouth moves like that of a fish, up and down with no words to spill forth.

He holds up a hand as he steps forward with the blanket. “You don’t need to explain, m’lady. The offer stands.”

Then he is so close, all she sees is skin. Inches of it, all of which is pale and dotted with scars. Some are small, but others stretch from navel to hip. That one is particularly nasty, and it makes her want to shrink back. What kind of man would he have to be to survive such a brutal wound? How many wounds of the like has he gifted others?

But then there is a warmth enveloping her. He drapes the blanket over her shoulders and in doing so brings her closer. Close enough her nose is at his chest. And all the chills that shake her body float away as a new surge of warmth floods her veins. He draws the blanket in tighter, as if wrapping her in a cocoon, pulling her in.

She goes, until a spike of pain suddenly shoots up her arm and she lets out a whimper. He freezes, eyes falling to her chest and honing in on the way she is cradling the one arm. Immediately he drops the blanket, letting it fall to the floor. Forgotten. 

“You are hurt.”

“I took a tumble.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, and a soft amused smile tugs at his lips. Rankled, she goes to step back, but he puts his hands on her shoulders to keep her in place.

“A bit more than a tumble, I’d say.”

She purses her lips and turns her head to the side, biting the inside of her mouth to keep from snapping at him. After all, he has been nothing but kind, though she is suspicious of his motives even if it is just to bed her. It doesn’t help that he starts to chuckle a bit at her expense.

“I don’t see why it is any of your business.”

He stills at the words, and those black eyes are back to raking over her face, contemplating. Only this time it is without heat or desire. Just curiosity. And then his smirk is back in place.

“Well, m’lady, now you have made it my business. You ran off without so much as a thank you. And then you take me up on the offer of shelter only to spurn me, yet again. Are you so fickle?”

She takes the one good hand she has and pushes at his chest, glaring at him.

“Again, sir, my business is my own.”

His smirk falls, and she sees that anger that bubbles under the surface again. The one that met her upon waking. But then it snuffs out. He turns walking back to his spot across the cave and has a seat by the fire.

“Very well, m’lady. Then I suppose it is your business to care for your own broken arm. There is fabric in the bag over there. I’d suggest making a sling.”

And then, with an assuredness that she has yet to see him posses, he stretches out on the ground and closes his eyes.

——

She stands there long enough, fuming. He doesn’t need his eyes open to sense that. But eventually she does make for the bag, and with a few curses that make his brows rise, she grabs what she needs and settles on the ground across from him. It is only then that he cracks one eye, curious to see what she has chosen to fix her broken arm. Sighs as she starts to try and wrap her arm unsuccessfully.

“You try wrapping thy arm with just one good one.”

He sighs at being caught and makes to sit up. 

“Would the lady like my help?”

Hazel eyes narrow at him, lips pursed as she makes another silent attempt to wrap her arm while ignoring him. The effort ends in another curse.

Slowly he gets up and crosses the distance. Smiles at the faint blush that speckles her freckled cheeks and takes a seat beside her. She holds out the fabrics and turns toward him, though she keeps her face down.

“Thank you,” She whispers and it is so light he liked to have missed it. It makes his heart warm a little, and so when he reaches out for her broken arm, he is more delicate than he has ever been. Takes her elbow to hold it as he knows, and begins to gently wrap.

Though he uses the opportunity to feel her skin as he works, straying little too far up her arm that she lets out a little shuddering gasp and flashes a warning glare. But she doesn’t say anything as he lets his fingers rest a little longer on her soft, supple skin than is needed.

And when he is done with wrapping, he takes the longer fabric and bids she bend her head. And as she does so, hovering just over his lap, he has to take a gulp and pull himself back together for the image is so much like the one he manifested before she arrived that it flushes his veins.

So he swiftly ties it behind her neck and then places his hand under her chin to raise her face.

She lets him draw her face up, hold her chin between his thumb and index. And they hold their gaze until one snap from the crackling fire makes her skitter away, holding her arm close.

Breaking the spell.

“It would do best for you to keep that snug.” He says when the silence is too long.

She nods, an arms length away now. And he wants to desperately close that space, to pull her back into his grasp. To hold her face in the palm of his hand, and to tip her so those lips were right for plucking.

But there is that wild look in her eyes again. 

“Thank you.” She says again, turning to look at the flames in a clear dismissal. So he slides back over to his side of the flames and grabs a stick at which to prod them. Something to look at other than her.

“I shall leave in the morning.”

He does’t bother to look up from the flames.

“It would be best if you didn’t travel with your arm.”

She wrinkles her nose, and huffs.

“Not much to be done about that.”

It is then that he does raise his eyes, and meets her steely ones across the flames.

“And where shall you go. To a convent?”

“And not the kind men frequent.” He adds with a knowing smile. Her eyes go wide, and he knows he was right about her. At least to where she was running to. He has seen such things in other women, those that wish a different life from hearth and home. Ones that would prefer to make their path in the light of the Lord than in the shadows of a man.

“How dids’t thou guess?”

He shrugs, pressing the stick into the flames to move around a bundle of fodder. “What other choice would a woman have to make their own path?”

He can see his answer surprises her. But he is not like the men she has known, apparently. Most would consider her a fool for taking the habit instead of settling down. A woman with her looks, her fire, could surely have any man she desired. The fact she was beloved, or once loved, by the prince was telling enough. But from what he has gathered, this young woman chose the chaste life of a handmaiden to the queen for the exact reason she is running to the nunnery. 

Though that hadn’t saved her from her own heart. In a castle surrounded by men, she hadn’t been able to forge her own path. But he can see the hope she has for the prospect of being free from such creatures.

“What would you know of it?”

“Running from fate, my lady, is not just reserved for women.”

At that his face falls and he runs a hand through his hair. Looks away from her, feeling the burden of his past welling in his breast. 

“From what did you run, sir?”

She asks it lightly, as if afraid it will bring him to rage. But he doesn’t answer her, just lets the flames gather his attention until even she grows tired of waiting and reclaims the blanket. Before long she is asleep, curled into a ball against the cold ground and the bite of the wet night.

Once she is fully asleep, he finally looks upon her. Still feels unsure she is here, just an arm length’s away. That she returned, even if it was because of the men in the woods searching for her. And she apparently feels safe enough to sleep in his presence, and how he earned that he is unsure. And though he knows this is the better alternative for her, it still brings warmth to know she came back of her own volition. 

Her cheeks puff out a little as she sleeps. And her eyes flicker behind her lids. Her hair is starting to dry into wild crinkles and waves.

Such a beautiful thing, this girl. And he doesn’t even know her name.

What a waste of such beauty on a convent. His heart drops at that. He suspected that was her plan. Women on the run only had so many options. To go from being able to love and find a husband. To have children and a home. Sure it is another type of shackle, but there are choices in that path. Where the convent is not men telling her what to do, surely she knows the sisters will tell her what time to wake and what chores must be done. But perhaps she doesn’t realize she is just trading one form of servitude for another. 

He sighs. Perhaps that is what others have said about his choices. After all, he went from a silver spoon in his mouth to trudging through the moors. He could have anyone he wanted if he stayed home. If he kept his title and his lands. But with the freedom of that power came restraints he was unwilling to weather. There was a different freedom gained as a soldier. And these constraints, well, he can handle them better than the alternative. He supposes she must feel the same way.

It leaves a great hole in his chest to think it has to be this way for her. Like he was ten years ago, she is on the cusp of such a decision.

So he stays awake through the night, watching her with dread as she sleeps. For come morning, goodbyes must be said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings can be confusing things. Especially when you are convinced you don't need them.

He spends the night watching her. 

Only does he fall asleep when his eyes grow too heavy and sleep drags him under. And it is then that she feels the weight of his gaze lift from her body and she can breathe easier. No longer does she have to pretend to doze.

But it is morning now. And it has arrived like a languid cat stretching its claws in the grass. It leaks through the canopy of trees that hover over the entrance, creeping across the stone floor until one beam hesitantly reaches for his toes. It stretches upward, bathing him in a warm glow.

She dares not move. 

Whether it be from the fear of continuing her journey along a road fraught with soldiers, or because she is afraid to wake him, she is unsure. Like this his face is open and at ease. The wrinkles that tug at his brow, or his stormy eyes, are all settled like the surface of water before one drops a stone upon it. But if he wakes, she knows it will break this spell.

So she watches with one eye cracked. Notes the way his chest rises and falls with a steady rhythm. His mouth forms a small ‘o’ as his head lolls to the side in his sleep. And now she can see the high cheekbones and the spattering of moles. His hair is falling over half his face, curling against the rising humidity of the vaporizing morning dew. 

_From what do you run?_ She muses.

He has the look of a soldier. That much she knows. But the high cheekbones, the care of his skin and the brightness to his eyes suggest a higher birth. Someone that knows hygiene and food, and hasn’t starved a day in their life. So he has to be a knight or some higher ranking soldier at least.

If he isn’t of nobility.

She would bet the small stash of francs in her hiding spot he is of noble birth.

Her eyes trace the plane of his jawline, and then down to his throat and neck. They settle on what she can see of his chest and shoulders, for most is covered by the massive arm slung over his torso. But she can’t help but stare, his size filling the cavern and making it feel smaller than it is. She can’t remember the last time she saw a man of such height and build. Perhaps when she was a child, and everyone felt more prominent than she.

Feels a blush creep across her cheeks, and immediately she turns to look away. Pretends to shift in her sleep and stares at the rock wall instead. 

_I have no place for such feelings._ She chastises herself, and forces her eyes closed. 

She must make enough noise to wake him because she hears him shuffle — a surprised snort of sorts coming from him before she can feel the weight of his gaze upon her again. It is more intense than it was in the night, like a weight pressed against her chest and she finds herself holding her breath even as she attempts to pretend she is still sleeping.

“Good morning, m’lady.” He says a second later, and the words come out with a little ring to them as if he is making fun of her. She flushes crimson.

“Tis dawn?” She asks, trying hard to make her voice a little huskier to play off that she was sleeping. Because even if he is aware, she isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of it.

“That it is, m’lady.”

She bites her tongue at the humor laced in his words.

But she rolls over anyway, pulling the blanket close and slowly sitting up.

She is surprised to see he is up and moving, gathering what little provisions he has. A cup. His shirt which looks only half dried. Boots. A coat. She follows his movements with a bit of trepidation, not sure what to say or do when he is so obviously about to leave. 

It’s time to go. 

But the thought of leaving, of crashing back through the brush makes her grimace. And it worsens when her arm protests any movement.

He gives pause when she lets out a little hiss, and she freezes when he steps forward.

“You need to keep that still. Close. Otherwise, your sisters will have to re-break it when you arrive.”

She is surprised she doesn’t jerk away from him or shirk back when he settles on his haunches and reaches for her arm. Lets him carefully check the sling he made before he reaches for his pack and grabs another wrapping from within. 

“If you insist on traveling, it would be best if I wrapped it to your torso.”

It takes a second for it to sink in what he intends, and she knows she blushes from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. Even though she has on two layers of clothing...

But she hurries forward, nodding as he leans a little and then his arms are around her, tugging on the wrapping and pulling her arm tighter to her chest; holding it snug. She finds herself staring at his chest, thankfully clothed this time, as looking anywhere else while between his thighs is far worse. So when he pulls back, satisfied with his work, she finds herself both relieved and disappointed at his absence.

“That should hold you for a while.”

And he gently brushes some of her hair out the way before leaning back. She feels her neck tingle where his fingertips just skimmed.

“I don’t believe we exchanged names,” She hears herself ask, surprised to find she doesn’t want him to leave. She thought it would be hard to get away. That he might try and make her stay, but now that he is the one packing and preparing.

It leaves a strange feeling in her chest that makes words bubble from her mouth.

“I’m Ophelia.” She whispers because it feels like it is something that should be said quietly. That being too loud could break whatever is holding him in place.

“Ophelia,” He repeats her name once. It rolls off his tongue with a rich and deep tone that makes her skin prickle. But then there is a sternness that crosses his face as he realizes he must respond in kind.

“Kylo. Kylo Ren.”

She scrunches her nose at the name; such an obviously made up name.

“You don’t like it?”

“It's a fake name, sir.” She responds, even as his face falls at her reaction.

“But it is still a name.”

She frowns at that, taking a little move back. Whatever moment she thought was passing is blown away like the wind. And clarity is ringing in her ears now. His fake name smacks her across the face as realization dawns. She doesn’t know this man. She knows just enough to make him dangerous, and though he has shown no sign of harming her…

His people are about to invade her country.

He doesn’t acknowledge her rebuke, instead goes back to work.

“Well, Ophelia, it has been interesting. But as you are aware, I must make haste. I do have your home to conquer. I assume you are off to the nunnery?”

She scurries up, too, glancing at her tattered dress as the blanket falls to the floor.

“Yes, that is the plan.”

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, “You are not an easy one to sway.” He says this more to himself, but she feels her spine go rigid anyway. But his next words stop whatever tirade is about to spill from her mouth, “I left a pack with some provisions and what francs I have. For your journey.”

“You don’t -“

He cuts her off, grabbing his pack and slinging it over his shoulder.

“From another runner to another. It is the least I can do to help in your pursuit of freedom from men.”

She feels the verbal barb as a physical blow, knows her eyes are flashing at the criticism. And it hurts worse that he didn’t mean it that way, that his words come with a sincerity she knows she doesn’t warrant. Because he has been nothing but kind this entire encounter, and though she is still hesitant to think him different from the men she has known, he has shown every inclination that he is.

“I would leave my blanket, but I fear my horse would protest.”

She notices his eyes stray to the little bits of her skirts. With the one arm she tries to flatten them, a habit of years. But there is nothing to be done about that. Even if he offered his pants, it would do nothing to help.

So she bends down, with his eyes still on her, and grabs the blanket - holds it out to him. And there is this second where their fingers touch as she passes the quilt and there is a zing. And she feels a familiar heat pooling in her lower abdomen, one that she barely knows from her husband. The one that makes her heart race and still at the same time. As if the world is shattering and melding together all over again. Hears him take in a shuttering breath before their hands fall away.

“I wish you well on your journey, Ophelia.” He whispers, and just as he goes to turn, she reaches out to stop him.

She knows not what madness grips her. Perhaps she is still feeling the effects of the drug. Maybe it is just the thought of not having this feeling again. Of skin prickling and zings along her fingers and toes. Of a stomach that flits with promise, and pools with desires. This is the last of it she will know. Either she will meet her death or meet a life free of such passion. But she wants another farewell — another chance to feel before it is too late.

So she grabs his arm, and he turns toward her, confusion written on his face. She closes the distance between them and reaches up with her good arm, stretching on the tips of her toes to grab the back of his head and pull him to meet her lips.

His lips are warm and pillowy, though chapped from being on the road. A mixture of what she imagines this man could be - rough on the edges but with a softness that slips between the cracks of such a stern facade. Lets her fingers curl into his damp curls and finds them to be soft. Just as she imagined. And the minute he catches on, and the surprise is gone, his hands are sneaking around her back to her shoulders, hovering just over her skin as if he isn’t sure he is allowed to touch — a debate. But he moves his mouth under hers, parts just a bit so she can taste his warmth.

And then she is pulling away, feeling the zings that speed through her bloodstream prickle at the loss. And he stands, barely moving as if lightning struck him. 

“I owe you a thank you for your kindness, Sir Ren. And I hope you find what you are looking for, too.”

And then she spins on her heel, grabbing her shoes and awkwardly shoving her feet inside. Feels his heavy eyes on her as she quickly dresses, cheeks burning from the kiss and his attention - his full attention.

“You should stay.” She hears him say, and it is a low but harried thing. “You can. I can come back; I can offer you another choice.”

She is glancing at him from where she is bent tying her laces. Feels her heart hammer as he babbles.

“You don’t have that as your only choice. You could come with my people. I will see you cared for.”

It's the same promises every man makes when their mouth has been on hers.

“I have heard such promises before. And I have found them wanting.” She says, hurting to finish, to end this feeling of desperation that is clinging.

And her words shut his mouth. His face flickers from hurt to sour. But he doesn’t say a word, not as she starts to slip past him.

“I should not have done that.” She says, turning away.

“You seem to have a knack for doing things you shouldn’t.” He mutters, and she turns then to pin him with a glare. But he is climbing his horse, and his lips draw into a flat line.

“The best to you, m’lady.”

“And to you dear soldier.”

Then he is gone, and there is nothing but the woods ahead.

——

_Fuck. I grow attached far too easily._

His words of offering, of declaration, ring wildly in his head and put him in such a mood that all his men scatter when he comes skidding into the camp with his stallion hissing. Quickly he jumps down, and his squire is on him in a second. Matika grabs at his horse’s reigns, quickly ducking out the way and guiding Tie to water and food.

“Where is he?” He barks at the others, and they point to the largest tent. They quickly part, watching as he stomps toward the main tent, trying to take deep and measured breaths to calm is insides. Pushes down his harried thoughts that revolve around the girl with flaming hair and earthly eyes. With a mouth that left bruises on his lip and his damaged soul. All in the matter of days.

_Nothing would have come of it._ He growls into his mind. He saved her and she did thank him in the end. But like all before, she left. And should she even stayed, eventually she would have gone despite what he did to keep her.

But even as he stands before his leader’s tent, does he feel the weight of it. As if it could have been something. That little devious spark of hope that he can never squash no matter how hard he tries. No matter how much mud he trudges through, or the amount of blood that stains his sword. Feels it blooming brightly in his chest even though he knows well there is no chance of anything with the girl called Ophelia. 

With a curse he kicks open the tent flap.

“You are late.”

Fortinbras starts, his eyes landing on Kylo from across the war table. His finger is hovering just over the castle on the map.

“I had a complication.” He says before glancing at the plans. They haven’t changed since they last spoke, which means his information was accurate. Denmark’s rulers were too busy with their own concerns to worry about Fortinbras. Perhaps they assumed he would arrive later. They did manage to make excellent time. He guessed the King expected to be done with his nephew’s claim on the throne before he faced Norway’s wrath.

A horrible mistake on his part.

“It was true, then?”

Fortinbras's mouth quirks, up. “As always, your information never fails. The King is indeed unfocused.”

“And the plan of attack?”

Fortinbras places a finger on the map. “His patrols are more visible at night. He seems to think we won’t use the light of day. But even if he sees us coming it shouldn’t be enough time.”

“So nightfall?”

He smiles brightly, the prospect of reclaiming his birthright and vanquishing his father’s slayer making his lips curve upward. “At nightfall, we take the castle.”

Kylo doesn’t attempt to hide the satisfaction those words bring. 

They are a searing balm to his heart. It overwhelms the pain he was feeling a moment before, bathing it in a more potent drug. Pain and satisfaction. Something he can handle. Like cauterizing a wound. So long as he stokes the flame, lets the pain consume, he won’t have time to think on loosing something he never had in the first place. So when this battle is done, and the memory of her resurfaces and his mind won’t quiet, he’ll at least have the thoughts of tearing into the castle to plunge into. Let the thoughts and memories of flesh and blood and burning surge through his veins and burn out all the warmth the girl burrowed into his chest. All of that hope will dissolve when faced with the terror in his enemies eyes.

And perhaps he will even have a chance to finally put a face to the man that put her on the run.

Maybe he could even hold the heart of the man that holds hers between his fingers.

And crush it beneath his boot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a kiss! Well Ben took a bit of a dark turn didn't he? (Don't worry, this isn't going to be a Dark Kylo) And now that they are headed separate ways, how will they find their way back to each other?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Till next week. <3


	6. Chapter 6

They meet no resistance; instead, they find open doors.

It seems silly now, to have so many men and nothing to fight. All the soldiers and guardsmen have presented no quarrel, but let them ride directly into the fortress and sit astride their horses while their men comb the castle in search of signs of an army. With great anxiety, he begins to realize there will be no battle to satiate his errant thoughts.

So he shifts in his saddle, forcing his thoughts to things that could calm the rise of bloodlust that is screaming in his head. Takes deep breaths and watches the castle with a blank expression. Almost curses in relief when one of the scouts returns minutes later, an odd look upon his face.

_Perhaps_ , he thinks with a bloom of hope; _I will get what I crave_.

"M'lord," The scout bows deeply to Fortinbras. "There is an unexpected complication in the throne room that requires your attention."

Kylo tilts his head at the messenger, curious as to what would make him shake such and nervously unclench his hand. As if afraid of the reaction from his liege. But Fortinbras does nothing save to dismount and motion for the rest to follow. 

"Very well, show me."

Kylo follows with the group, hand resting on the hilt of his saber should need of it arise. Hopes from some shadow a man will jump, and he can put his nerves to good use. But even weaving through the halls, they meet nothing but bows and curious glances.

He isn't sure which is worse. Expecting a battle and meeting none, or not expecting a fight and having to face one. Both do a number on his emotions.

What meets them in the throne room is nothing he expected.

There is blood.

That much he guessed correctly.

There is an entire court, all of whom are clinging to the walls with shocked eyes and weary countenances. Many are looking everywhere but the bloodbath at the center of the hall. Others stare blankly. When Fortinbras enters, stepping from his mass of men and into the arena with the confidence of ownership, all their gazes snap to him. What clamor their voices rang before falls silent.

Slowly do they bow.

Fortinbras doesn't move, not until the last of them bends. Then he makes to move, his group of men taking a step with him. He reaches out a hand to bid them stay and crosses with the eyes of his entire new court following him.

The only sounds to echo through the room are those of Fortinbras's steps and the hushed whimpers of the woman at the center of the hall with her head buried in the chest of a deadman.

His lord gives pause before the woman, avoiding the pool of blood that surrounds most of the bodies. For a second he acts to stretch out a hand, to put a kind hand upon the former Queen's shaking shoulder. But doesn't, instead turns to look at a young woman that stands just out of range of the display, eyes wide like a rabbit nearly snared.

"What ill has fallen here?"

The woman takes a second to compose herself, bowing deeply at her new lord. And when she finds her voice, it shakes, but it is clear enough to make sense of it.

"The Prince. The Prince did this."

Kylo feels a drop to his stomach, and he isn't sure if it is a morbid sense of relief that her lover is dead or that her beloved was mad enough to cause this travesty. Had she stayed, would Kylo have found her among these bodies - another victim of her husband's illness?

His eyes fall to one, the eldest of the three with a bent crown on his head. The other, he recognizes with a shock, has hair of flames. Locks to match those of the girl. A relation, perhaps?

It isn't until he is done contemplating that bit of information that he finally lets his gaze rest on the body the queen hovers over. He can see a shock of strawberry blonde hair, tanned skin. A lithe young man. Classically handsome if not somewhat boyish in looks. Youthful. The prince. Hamlet. Her lover. 

_He doesn't look mad_. He muses.

"Explain," Fortinbras commands the girl, and she gulps. Her eyes flicker to the crowd, and she must gain some confidence from them for her voice grows steadier.

"The young Prince, well, he was driven mad with grief over his father's death. He blamed his uncle for killing his father and taking the throne. In his madness, he accidentally killed his man's father."

Her head nods toward the man with red hair, and Kylo knows without a doubt that he was right. There was some connection. A cousin. A brother. A father killed by her husband? Surely not...

"In retribution, the young lord demanded a duel with the Prince. The Prince won, but was wounded and turned on the King."

Silence falls over the room again.

"And what illness prevailed him to do such things?"

Looks are cast about, ones that speak of softly spoken rumors and frightful theories. 

"We are unsure of the exact cause, but doctors have assured us it is not contagious."

Which is all Fortinbras was curious to know. So long as it couldn't infect him or his men, it was of no concern. Thus he goes to turn from the scene, eyes turning back to his men with intent.

But then there is a shout.

"'Twas a witch!"

There are a few chorused hisses of agreement.

He had overheard such things mentioned in his ridings — tales of a woman with hair of red that bespelled a prince and turned him wild. He had suspected this was the reason for her running.

She stood no chance here. With a dead father and brother what family left to her? The label of witch on top of her tragedies placed a death sentence upon her. And that was before this bloodshed for which they will inevitably blame her. She will be dead the moment any one of the catches her. Burned. Stoned. Drowned. There are many ways to dispose of a witch, and not so many ways to exonerate one.

Fortinbras doesn't acknowledge the exclamation, having never been a man for superstitions. But it is enough to make the Prince of Norway look at the scene wearily. It is a situation his lord will demand is cleaned up immediately, blood and witch rumors alike — all to burn off the residue of such a claim. If news traveled of madness and witches bespelling princes, consequences could be dire. Fortinbras needed this land to accept him as a ruler, and ridding the country of a witch was one method.

When Fortinbras slips back into his group of men, he pauses beside Kylo and rests a hand on his shoulder.

"See that all manner of this witch nonsense ends; however you must do it."

——

The road is surprisingly empty for days. Aside from the townsfolks and a few merchants, she is hard pressed to find another human being. She tries not to get lulled into a sense of peace, but the more distance she puts between herself and the castle the more brazen she becomes. The less she sticks to the trees and brambles, and the more she travels the edges of the road.

When she finally reaches the convent, she is surprised to see she is almost to the door. She glances around her, noting there are a few women scattered about the road, half of which are pulling weeds or gathering berries from patches that cling to the fence. Only then does she realize she is being watched, and her cheeks heat in embarrassment. She holds her head high and walks over to the nearest lady.

"I beg your pardon, but I am in need of help."

The nun looks up from the basket she is filling with berries and turns to Ophelia. And for a second, Ophelia feels a little shock, because the nun is young, like her. Only her face can are visible under her habit, but her eyes are warm and welcoming.

And then those eyes skip over her distressed look and her mouth quirks.

"I would say you are, m'lady. Let's get you in to see the mother."

And before she realizes what is happening the young nun has traded her basket for Ophelia's elbow and is guiding her along to the side of the convent where a door is open, and a few ladies are moving in and out.

It is a place of stone, wood, and glass. There are a few windows that stretch to the ceiling, some of which are colored and spread cheerful light across the rooms. But it is small and quaint. She can't imagine many ladies tending to the place, but the ones that dart about seem busy enough.

"I am Sister Rose," The nun tells her, a flurry of excitement and chatter, "You'll find the mother to be very generous. She will be happy to help you heal and get you right back where you belong."

Ophelia gives pause, "But I wish to join, not heal."

Rose doesn't stop moving, even pushing through a group of her sisters that grunt at her actions. And Ophelia lets her drag her along, somewhere to the back beyond kitchens and chambers. Past an endless hallway of doors until finally pausing before one that looks just as all the others do.

"You don't need to make such a decision now," Rose whispers, and then reaches forward to rap against the door. A soft 'come in' rings from the other side and Ophelia finds herself shoved into a very small, but cozy room.

"A prospect?" The mother says before either of them can speak. She raises her shrewd eyes to Ophelia and then motions for her to take a seat on one of the benches across from her.

"That will be all, Sister Rose. Please see that a room is made available for our visitor."

Rose nods and disappears, closing the door behind her. Then silence falls, and Ophelia turns her attention back to the mother. She fights the urge to shift uncomfortably under the woman's gaze, though she flushes. 

_I must look a mess._

"What is your name, child?" The woman asks, finally stopping her appraisal.

"Ophelia."

"As I thought. News of you has even traveled to our little convent. Stories of you being a witch. Some guardsmen also searched our quarters for a woman with red hair and a beautiful face."

Panic must cross her face because then the mother is leaning forward and placing a hand on her own.

"No fear. They have passed. And even a guardsman finds it hard to force a nun from her habit in the face of God."

She breathes out a sigh of relief.

"The world can be a cruel place, especially to women. Is that why you came here? To find peace from your life?”

Ophelia feels her breath catch in her throat. How many times has she rehearsed what she would say to the sisters? Only to have it stick on her tongue.

A soft smile pulls across the mother's face and then she is up and moving.

"Perhaps you are not ready to answer that question. But we shall give you the time to decide. Until then, you will take the habit. You will do as bid. And you will learn what this life offers. Perhaps this is the path the Lord intends you walk. Perhaps not. But there is only one way to find out."

The mother returns with a small leatherbound bible and places it on her lap. Grabs her hands and puts them over it.

"I am Sister Amilyn. Seek me out when you are ready to make your choice. Until then, Sister Rose will show you our ways."

She motions for Ophelia to rise and then gathers her in her arms in a quick hug. And for a second Ophelia feels her eyes prickle with the threat of tears. Then Sister Amilyn pulls back, and the feeling vanishes when Rose appears in the door.

"Let me show you to your chambers."

Ophelia gives a nod bows at the mother, giving her a soft smile before Rose is tugging her back down the corridor.

“So what am I to call you?” Rose asks seconds later, and Ophelia realizes it is an odd phrasing for such a question.

“Whatever do you mean, sister?”

“Surely you won’t keep Ophelia. Not as a suspected witch. You’ll need a new name.”

She feels her insides twist at the thought of forgoing her birth name. She hadn’t thought of shucking her past like this, though she knew before arriving that sisters took a new name upon the completion of their vows. Still, the question startles her enough to make her blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Rey.”

Rose scrunches her nose, and looks at her with confusion, “That is a bit odd.”

“If I am to choose a new name, I would like it to reflect what I hope for the future. And Rey seems fitting.”

Rose repeats the name and then lets out a little snort, “Suppose it doesn’t get more hopeful than a ray of sunshine. Though it will be strange to call you Sister Rey when you take your vows.”

And so the day goes. She gets a bath and a simple dress to cover her making her feel better than she has in days. The simplicity of it brings a calmness she has not felt in ages. The sisters are quiet around her, not begging of questions but shooting curious glances when she eats with Rose. But it is nice to break bread with these women, and the possibility of them becoming her family over time fills her chest with a warmth that seeps through her pores.

And all other thoughts but sleep leaves her when she finally rests in a bed - exhausted and hopeful for a new life.

——

The bodies are carted off in the night, surrounded by sparkling candles and nearby fauna. A funeral procession that would not have happened should Fortinbras have taken the castle by violence. But since the tragedy has shaken these people to the core, he has shown mercy in allowing for proper burials worthy of a king and prince. While it is done of kindness, it is also born of calculation. This mercy will make these subjects more open to their new ruler. 

He didn't bother to join Fortinbras congregation to watch the procession, instead choosing to sit in a window overlooking the parade where he can sip idly from some horrible mulled wine he managed to snatch from the kitchens. With his newly assigned task, he has free leave of the place. And with Fortinbras otherwise engaged he has had the chance to find a corner in which to hide and let the day slip away.

As the last cart draws across the bridge, he can't help but compare himself to the dead man within. A man so remarkably different from himself, he finds. Not built of bulk, but slender. Sleek. A man without a scar or the lines that always crease the brow of hardened soldiers.

_So this is the man that she married?_ He thinks, taking a deep sip and narrowing his eyes.

He shouldn't compare himself to a dead man.

Yet, as he drinks, he can't help the sick satisfaction of watching the man carted off to the graveyard. Of thinking on the kiss pressed against his lips not so long ago. 

Her last kiss. 

At least she hadn't let her last kiss be to a madman — a deadman.

But to him.

And all through the next days, as he explores the castle and takes in the information that Fortinbras is keen to gather, his mind wonders back to her. Did she make it to the nunnery? Is she safe? Did his the decision to stop the garrison from traveling along the road to the west help her pass safely? Will she get to live her life in blessed solitude, save for her sisters, free from the harsh fate that awaits her in Elsinore?

Is she finding the freedom she seeks?

And as he walks the halls he pauses in Hamlet's chambers and thinks of her here. Has to turn and leave before he pulls his saber and wrecks havoc. He really doesn’t want to explain himself after. And eventually he finds himself in the handmaiden quarters. Glances around until he believes he knows which is hers. Asks the staff, and they point to her room.

And the minute he enters, he knows it is hers. It smells of her — a softness of flowers and light perfume. And it is dotted with dead things, ones that were living before she made her run. Dried flowers that make the room smell of death and musk. But he ignores these things and walks to her desk, flips through her stationary to see how she writes, draws. Finds paints and canvas of flower and gardens that make his heart still. And her words, written to a friend, are as alive as she was.

But it is the leather bound journal, left at the center of her writing desk that draws his attention. Ink splotches dot the pages as if forgotten in thought and the written words are nothing short of rants — flowers and madness and insanity. He pulls back those pages, gently flipping to earlier words and finds that for days she has scribbled and dabbled in crazed, fevered mutterings. And left it for all to see.

_Cunning little thing._

But he keeps flipping until the pages aren’t hasty scrolls of letters and tattered thoughts but well-composed musings. Neat and precise lettering, purposeful and thoughtful.

The bench upon which she once sat and wrote screeches across the floor as he drags it closers and perches, leaning over the desk and settling in for a read.

This castle is surely full of ghosts. Those of the dead. That of the living. For not matter how much he tries to drown thoughts of her in a bottle or lashes out at his men in practice, he swears he can see her walking the cursed halls. Imagines the scent of her, just underneath the must of the castle and embedded in his nostrils. And if drinking and battle won’t let thought of her leave him, what is left but to drown in them. 

Perhaps in satiating his curiosity about her, he will learn something off-putting. If he could shatter his opinion of her then he could exercise her from his mind. 

But as he reads her words, and traces her letters, he realizes it is folly. For not only does he not find something to shatter his view of her, but it only strengthens. And when he is done reading he lets out a shuttering breath and runs a hand through his wild locks.

A wonderful and deep mind, with nuances and loneliness to match his own. 

And by morning he is saddled on his horse and leaving the gates of Elsinore far behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reunion here we come! Thank you so much for reading. Hope you enjoyed. Until next time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to drop a thank you to all my readers for your extremely kind words and support for this story. You are the best readers, and I can't express how much you have fueled my writing. THANK YOU!
> 
> And a thank you to @sofondofbooks (msdes) for the beautiful moodboard below and your support. It is stunning, D. <3

 

For such a small place, there is much to do. Fences to mend and gardens to tend. Food to cook, and tables to dust clean. For the first day, she helps mop the floors and rinse the pots. Cracking her skin and making her fingers sting. When she settles for the night, resting on her creaky cot and pulling the wool blanket over her shivering shoulders, it is with a wince.

The next day is much the same. More scrubbing. More dusting. Occasionally she breaks for food or to visit Sister Harter, who checks her arm and ensures it sets correctly. So intent on showing her worth, Rey dives back into her assigned tasks with a fervor.

This pattern repeats for days. Each ending with her falling exhausted onto her cot and drawing up the blanket. She falls into a fitful sleep to wake more rested than she has felt in months.

Until the fifth day.

News of the castle comes fast. Stories of a prince that killed a knight and then turned on his king after a fair duel. Of Norway’s reclaiming of the land and what shall happen with a new ruler. Then there are the even more hushed tones, which the sisters say under their breaths when their eyes dart to her habit and look through it to the bright red locks.

And she knows of what they whisper. The woman that bedded the mad prince. The one that may or may not have been a witch.

Even though Sister Rose is kind and is sure to walk with her everywhere in the convent, to fill the empty spaces with chatter about this and that, the day drags on.

So when she falls to her cot, legs screaming from walking the stone floors for the day, her mind refuses rest. Instead, when she clenches her eyes close, a dark cape falls over her vision. The blanket tucked to her chin takes on a new scent - one that for smelling of horse and man is sickeningly comforting. And unable to bear the weight of it, she throws it off herself and spends the night tossing while the chill air nips at her skin.

All the while recalling how a pair of rough, chapped lips pressed pleasantly against her own.

Halfway through the night, tears seep from her tightly shut eyes. She falls into a stupor, wracked with guilt and loss. For what kind of woman must she be to devote herself to this lifestyle when she still has sinful thoughts? When her husband is but three days in his grave, and she imagines another?

——

Six days after her arrival, they release her to tend the blackberry patches. She steps into the sunlight and fresh air with a lighter heart, inhaling the woodsiness as she gently trudges down the well worn path to the edge of the forest. A few other sisters are minding the gardens - weeding and tilling to prepare the earth for new seeds. Others are plucking away at the vegetables that have managed to cultivate in this wet spell. But there is something in the solitude of the hedges nestled in woods that calls to her on this day.

Nature has always been her balm.

She slips between the line of trees; basket tucked into her side as she weaves along the worn path. It is a small thicket, right on the edge of the creek; not far from the convent, but set enough back that her sisters' couldn’t see her. Gives pause when the trail ends at a thick nest of brambles with full to bursting blackberries that stain the ground upon falling.

Gently she starts to gather, placing them in her basket and letting the time slip past. Measures the minutes by the growing pile of berries, until her basket is half full. She takes a second to wipe at her brow when she hears the snap of a twig.

She swings around, basket banging against her side. Berries spill, splatting to the ground. Feels her heart still in her chest, and gives a startled hiss as she backs into the hedges

Two hands fly up in supplication and she immediately recognizes the deep timbre of the voice that rumbles forth. Covered from head to toe in cloak and hood, if it weren’t for studying the night she returned to the cave, she would have thought him a stranger.

But then she has never met another man of his size before, either.

“I apologize, m’lady. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Her shoulders drop and she gathers her breath. He uses this as a sign to reach up and drop his hood. Reveals that mass of black curls that hang to his shoulders and those wild eyes that are always flitting softness and a raging storm.

“Kylo?” She hisses, not moving from the unwelcoming bite of the blackberry bush that pierces her skin. Too unsure of what he is doing here.

“Yes. I - didn’t want to frighten the sisters. Nor did I think they would let me see you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same. Is that what you came here? To gather berries and scrub floors?”

Her face heats at his words, at the lacing of a snub within them. “I happen to like scrubbing and picking berries.”

A little twitch to his lip shows her temper amuses him and she tries to reign it in so as not to cause further amusement. And considering he didn’t answer her more pressing question, she throws it back at him.

“Again, Sir, what are you doing here? Surely your Lord would need your skills with a new castle to maintain.”

At that, his amusement fails, and a little pool of darkness swims in his eyes. But then it is gone, like a flickering of a candle.

“Surprisingly, no. The castle gave no resistance. Shows no sign of giving resistance.”

His voice is an embittered growl, but when his eyes meet hers there is an empathetic sorrow.

“Your husband -“

“I know.” She cuts him off. “I - the stories traveled this far. Killed my brother, then turned on the king. And in a minute the entire Kingdom fell to the knees of Norway.”

He nods, “If it helps, only their blood was spilled. All others were spared.”

She would think knowing others hadn’t suffered under an invasion would soothe some of the burns, but it doesn’t. The sting of what her mad husband did, what he took from her is so nestled deep inside, so pushed down as not to disturb that she finds even good news manages to do nothing to shake her heart.

“I would like to say it does.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, and she lets out a long-held breath.

“But I fear even the prick of a bramble brings no fleeting feeling of pain or thought.”

A silence falls between them that makes her shift uncomfortably, and when she glances up, it is to see him leaning against a tree with his arms wrapped about his torso and a contemplating look upon his face.

“And you believe that hiding yourself away here, where you wouldn’t have to face the truth of it is a better alternative?”

She balks at his words, though they there is no tone of condescension. Instead it is curiosity and something more - desperate. He choose these words carefully - meaning for them to pierce and wound. To cut her open and force her to look at the mess nestled deep inside.

Which is not what she wants to do.

There is the familiar prick of tears, and she bites the inside of her cheek until it bleeds. Pinches the inside of her elbow. All to keep the tears from falling.

“What other choice do I have? There is no future for me there. They’ll try me a witch. Surely you heard.”

“I did.”

“And here they offer me what I need. A place to be left alone. A place with friendship.”

“A place with no future? Of eternal servitude to a deity?”

Her lips pull back from her teeth, and she is ready to spit again, but then he shifts and pulls from his cloak a leather book. One she immediately recognizes.

“I read your journal -“

“How dare you!” She screeches, and forgets about the basket of berries. Tosses them as she rushes forward, snatching the book from his grasp.

“It is not like you hid it. The mad ramblings - that was rather ingenious. The only thing people fear more than a witch is a crazed woman. But they don’t tend to put rocks in their pockets and let them sink to the bottom of a lake.”

“You read it?”

He completely ignores her question, as if she is missing the point, “Though it doesn’t seem to have had any effect. The court still wishes you dead for be-spelling their prince and cursing their kingdom. Though if they know what he said to you upon first meeting you in the moor perhaps they would be ashamed of the man their prince really -“

“You read all of it?”

Her shocked words make him snap his mouth closed, and he lets his gaze fall on hers. There is an open honesty there that makes her pause. A baring of a soul for doing something wrong but for which they are not ashamed. And daring her to make him regret it.

But it is something genuine.

“It wasn’t something I could put down.”

She grips it closer, “But it wasn’t yours to read. Do you make it a habit to go through a ladies’ chambers and read her letters and journals?”

He doesn’t blanch.

“Not at all. This was my first. And I only kept going because -“ And he does pause at this as if deciding his words.

“Because a mind like yours should not stay confined to letters and journals and books. It should be freely spoken and lived. And it was both a torture reading it and a pleasure to know such a mind exists - yet is to be locked away here. In this place.”

And he spits the last word out with venom.

A crackle to the air makes her skin prickle, and she knows the look that darkens his features now. Eyes dark and wanting. Heated. Desiring and fevered.

“Is that why you are here?” She leaves the rest of the statement of the end, knows he understands her meaning.

“I am here to keep you from throwing your life away. I can offer you another choice - one better than this.”

And his hand is outstretching, reaching. For a fleeting second she almost meets it. Almost lets him take her hand in his. But then she steps back, journal clutched tightly to her chest.

Hurt flashes across his face and then the prick of rejection. He pulls his hand back to his side, clenching and unclenching.

“You need to let this go.” He mutters, voice cracked. “Whatever causes this fear of men. This need to push all away. You need to let it go.”

Hot angry tears stream down her cheeks, “And this clinging to me. This anger at rejection. You need to let that go.”

His breath draws inward, and his eyes flash. “At least I am not living a lie. I am not choosing a path that will end in a tortured existence. Do you think you can live this life happily? That scrubbing floors and picking blackberries and healing others will be enough for you?”

She grits her teeth.

“I’ve seen inside your mind, Ophelia. And I’ve felt your passion. You keep it all tucked away, and one day it’s going to spill over. And then where will you be?”

Prickles of tears gather.

“There is an abandoned cabin to the west of here. Follow the creek.”

She watches as he pushes off the tree and starts down the embankment, hands tucked into his cloak and hood drawing back up.

“I won’t come.” She cries out, though her voice wavers.

And he shrugs, “We shall see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Till next week, darlings. Be ready. All this pent-up pining and angst is about to come to fruition. ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late by a week - got caught up in the holidays and another fic. But good news is the time has come for some tension relief. I hope you enjoy. <3

There is a fever that ripples through her skin.

Everything she touches, cool or warm brings to mind pale scared flesh and dark, hooded eyes. Even as she works her way through the garden, basket in hand as she gathers peas and roots for tubers, every taste of the earth and wisp of the wind has her eyes flashing to the blackberry patch. And by the time she is done, sweat dripping down the back of her habit and her fingers aching from work, the fever has pooled between her legs.

She tries scrubbing it off when she bathes. 

Tries subduing it with an extra portion of soup for supper.

Writes until the lone candle on her desk runs out of wick and flickers out, leaving her to the darkness of her thoughts.

And an ebbing in her core and a hammering in her heart.

She tries to crawl between her sheets.

Wills her eyes to shut close.

Bites her bottom lip to stifle a hiss as her thighs rub together and frustration makes her curse.

Weather it. She mutters, breathing shallow as she closes her eyes. Fall asleep and endure it.

Morning is worse. Eyes swollen with a lack of sleep, she goes about her chores with a mindlessness that requires Rose take over her duties and point her in the direction of the gardens. 

“Some fresh air will do you good.”

The lick of sunlight against her skin does make some of the pressure abate, and she spends the day pulling weeds and deadheading dropping flowers. But when the sun begins to sink, and the candles begin to glow, the fever rises again.

So when she slips between the sheets and tries her mantra again, it doesn’t take. 

And if she can’t weather it - perhaps she has to burn it out.

Sneaking out is easy.

She’s done it enough times on the castle grounds to know her way around creaking doors and shadows. Gathering her cloak, she slips out her door and darts down the hallway, deft little feet hurrying over the stones. A few more steps and she is in the kitchens, then out the back door, weaving her way through the vegetable patch. When she reaches the fence, she carefully climbs through before casting one glance over her shoulder.

Awash in the moonlight, the nunnery is nothing but a manor house. There is a brief prick of anxiety over what she is about to do - what if they find out? What will she do if they turn her way? Feels the weight of eyes on her, as if God himself her weighing her and finding her wanting. Still, she turns away and hurries down the path to the blackberry patch before padding alongside the creek bed until she sees the cottage of which he spoke.

No sign of life. 

She gives pause, right before knocking. Is it the right place? Would someone else be inside?

But she raps against the door.

—

For a second he thinks it is his imagination. But when the second rap against the door rings through the cabin, he quickly tosses his book on the barrel he is using as a nightstand. Runs a hand through his hair as he sits up, a thrilling spike of adrenaline licking up his spine.

When she didn’t come the first night he had been worried he was wrong.

And when she didn’t show before midnight, he thought it would be another lonely night on his cot.

But it appears not.

He is up, scrambling across the dusty floor, kicking a stool out his way. Undoes the locks, and swings the door open, feeling the bite of the night air on his bare skin.

He glances down, not at all to see her covered in a cloak. Her little fingers reach up, tossing back the hood and her green eyes meet his with a flash of fire that makes his pulse quicken.

Then her eyes are drinking him in, pausing only briefly on his scars until she sees all of him. And when she flicks her gaze back up, cheeks flushed and green eyes imploring he can’t help that grin that starts to tug at his mouth.

“I knew -“ He starts, but she cuts him off.

Wasting no time, she reaches up on her tiptoes, hands cupping his face and pulling him down to her. Their lips meet with an urgency that takes him a second to respond, her fingers weaving into his hair while she tugs him closer. He almost pulls back, shocked. And when she finally lets them break for air, their eyes lock.

“Don’t say anything.” She whispers before pressing her lips to his.

He gets the hint. So she wants to be in control? He can do that. He can let her do whatever she likes, so long as she with him. 

So he succumbs to her touch, parting his lips for her. Lets his arms snake around her waist, lifting and pulling her over the threshold and into the cabin. He turns them, shutting the door with his foot and quickly jamming the lock, breaking for breath between tongues and soft nips on lips. When he sets her down, her hands trail from his hair, down his neck, and over his chest, spreading over his ribs. He groans into her mouth, pulling her back against him, ignoring the tickle of her soft fingers on sensitive skin.

Even as it makes him twitch.

They crash through some of the leftover furniture, even though he tries to guide her unsuccessfully. But when they do make it to the cot, she pulls away. Chest heaving she tosses her cloak to the floor, exposing the simple white nightgown that must be the standard dress for a convent. And though it doesn’t show much, just the hint of dusky nipples that poke proudly against the cotton, he can’t think of a more stunning sight.

He reaches out to touch, but her arm shoots out and presses her hand against his chest. Lets her gaze slip up to his and holds it. He can feel the steel in it, the command.

“We do this my way.”

Just as she demanded earlier, he doesn’t say a word — nods.

So when she presses her palm against his chest, he lets himself sit on the cot and watch as she comes to stand between his legs. Gathers his face in her hands again, and allows her thumbs trace of his cheeks and lips. Grabs one of his hands and places it on her waist before she tilts her head and captures him in another kiss.

And this time it is deeper, headier, as she rubs her chest against his and his hands slip past her waist to her ass, holding her in place. It’s precious moments of this, and he would gladly stay in his half-dazed haze of lust if he hadn’t been aching for her days now. 

And she must feel similar, as one of her legs slips over his lap and suddenly there is heat and slick pressing against him. He pulls her closer, hissing as she fits against him and rolls, and his aching member slides along her outer lips. She grunts and bows against him as he hits her bud with his tip, and then there is a mash of teeth and low mewls as she grinds against him.

And he has to let go of her to grab one edge of the wooden cot, clamping his hand like a vice and trying to keep focus. Desperately clinging to what will he can muster to not explode over her like this, without pounding through her folds and cumming inside.

He almost breaks their pact.

But then her hands are back in his hair and pulling his head back, exposing his lust hazed gaze to her. And she freezes her hips, making him suck in a breath.

“Lay down,” She growls, and he obeys.

She follows, stretching across his hips and adjusting only to ensure she doesn’t slide off. And his hands, still locked on her ass, keep her firmly in place.

Encouraged, she takes a moment to look him over. Her hands press against his chest and trace the dips of his muscles. Barely touch his nipples, her eyes darkening in the process.

She leans forward, and for a panicked moment, he thinks she is about to get up, but she reaches for the candle and blows it out.

The room falls to blackness, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight. But when they do, it casts them in shadows. He can make out the wisps of her pale gown and the smoothness of her legs splayed across his pelvis. And he wants the fabric gone. Despises it. Wants to see her. All of her.

But when she pulls back, settling on his hips and his rigid cock pressing against the firmness of her ass, he realizes he won’t get that tonight. Not when her hands glide over the top of his hips, and she gently lifts herself to grab him. His hands quickly rise to bunch her gown about her hips, and he groans low when her hand wraps around him, and her thumb swipes at the tip.

But that is nothing compared to what comes out his mouth as she guides him into her and then she sinks down slowly, adjusting to him as she gasps.

Hip to hip, she presses her hands against his chest, seeking purchase as she slowly raises her hips, making him glide right along her walls. He has to fight the need to rut up into her. To grab her hips and slam her back down. To take control. But when he is nearly out, she sinks back down. And this delicious torture continues until she has a rhythm that has her keening and his fingernails digging into the flesh of her ass as she rides him.

Her pace is relentless. Short rises and sharp falls that have her swollen lips pressing to his balls. And he hangs onto her, letting her take her fill and drowning in her mewling as she rises and falls above him, head tossed back in ecstasy.

This will be fast for both of them. He’s been keyed up for days and judging by how desperate her moans are getting and the swiftness of her hips she isn’t far from shattering. He just needs to make it long enough that she can crash. And when he feels the promising tingles of his orgasm licking closer, he drops a hand to the cot and grips the frame hard. Feels the splinters dig into his skin and concentrates on the annoyance, closing his eyes and cringing to keep the desire from building too soon.

_Not yet. Not yet._

_Let her have her fill. Let her know he can do this for her._

His other hand starts to snake under her nightgown, over her snapping hip to the juncture between her thighs. Seeking her clit, to bring her closer to the edge. But her hand grabs him and pushes it away.

“No.” She growls.

He bites the inside of his lip to keep from cursing back at her, from flinging her over and then rutting into her until they both spiral over the edge, grunting. 

But he looks up at her, catching her arching in the moonlight above him. Sees her face bathed in concentration. Then she is leaning forward, keeping her hips smacking against his, and presses a hand to his face. Without a word she grabs his free hand and lifts it, pushing it to her breast, and lets him knead it through the cotton nightgown — moans. And the angle must have changed because she is panting more, and her eyes are glossier than before. 

He can feel it, the way she is starting to flutter around him. Tighten. And then she is falling back, mouth open and keening as her pace slows and she hits her high, milking it for what she can.

And he meets her then, slamming his hips up and growling as a few more quick thrusts have him spurting into her. 

As she falls forward, limp in his arms, he curls around and lets her press a cheek to his chest.

“Not a word.” She heaves against his chest, trying to catch her breath.

She is gone before he wakes - a sticky mess on sticky sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, darlings, for reading! Sorry it was short - but no worries. More on the way. As always, kudos are my fuel and comments are a nitrous boost. Love hearing from you guys. And Happy New Year! Until next time.❤️


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the repost - somehow this didn't post properly. Enjoy!

The fever does not abate.

She manages to forestall a visit the following night by offering to aid Rose in preparing blackberries for jam. When she does fall into bed, it is futile. Her last few hours before dawn are spent twisting in sheets, memories of their night flickering under her eyelids.

The next night she slips out.

It, and all the following nights, keep the same pattern. She takes what he gives, not a word passing his lips, and then she runs back to the convent. 

So for a week, her nights are filled with her delighting in his touch, while her days are spent haunted by the questions in his eyes. With each visit his burnished brown eyes grow darker, filling with emotions that cause fissures to spread across her weakening heart.

_One needs not speak when their eyes tell it all._ Her mind supplies.

Desperate to keep from breaking, she has tried to bury her head in his chest or turn around and stare at the wooden slats of the cabin while gripping his thighs. But even then his eyes bore through her skin, flaying her open and hollowing out her insides.

_He won’t take much more of this._ Her mind whispers while she snaps peas. And she flashes back to his tells - how he holds his tongue by bitting the insides of his cheeks or how his jaw trembles when he suppresses his desires.

How last night she didn’t fight him when he sat up and pressed his back to her, an arm slipping up her nightgown to grasp a breast while she rode him backward. How she let her head fall back to his shoulder and desperately told herself she was inspecting the rafters instead of gushing when he muttered a hushed ‘stay’ into her ear before he came undone. 

_I can’t take much more of this._ Her feverish, and traitorous heart murmurs.

——

He flings his knife at the cracking wooden table, enjoying the twang it generates when it sticks. With a grunt he reaches forward and plucks it from the wood, continuing this idle game while his thoughts stray to the woman. 

In a week he has gained more sores from biting his cheeks than he has a lifetime of living. He has nearly torn through the thick flesh of his palms from fisting the sheets. And now all of his muscles ache, not from the act itself, but from the restraint.

He wants so little, and yet so much. And without so much as a whisper of a possibility, other than her returning every night to buck against him until she shatters, he hasn’t made any progress.

_Such a lovesick fool_ , he tells himself. _Always clinging to things that don’t want him attached._

He had thought, like the idiot he is, that by giving her the power that she would see he could give her control. He wouldn’t be like the others. He could be what she needs.

But he can’t keep this up much longer. He didn’t come here for her to take and not give. He tosses the knife upward, watching it embed in the ceiling.

_Just a little longer_ , he promises himself.

——

He is bare before her, with eyes of molten earth glittering in the moonlight before he steps back into the shadow of the cabin to let her in. It is all as before. A book and a single candle still rest on the nightstand. The pale sheets, which she knows will smell of soap from a fresh wash, neatly spread across the cot. All of his belongings are still tossed into a single corner, taking up no more than a few feet of space.

Dropping her hood, she goes to undo the clasp to her cloak. It falls from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She feels his gaze slipping up her body, pausing at her hips and then the press of her nipples against the linen. The door creaks as he closes it, sliding the locks in place all while focused on her.

She turns then, taking in the tick to his jaw, as he drinks her in. Notes his grip on the doorknob is pale and his hand is trembling with effort.

It is evident in the burn of his eyes how much he wants to rip the nightgown off. She fights back the urge to rub her thighs together at the heat of his gaze when it eventually locks with hers.

Inhales sharply when he almost takes a step forward, feeling her core weep at the possibility of him crossing the distance - of him finally ripping the offending nightgown. It shocks her, the way her knees tremble at the thought. 

But he doesn’t take the step. Nor does he say a word. Instead, he bears down on her with those haunting eyes.

And waits.

_Gods, I’m so tired of waiting._ She thinks, gathering her wits and crossing the distance herself. Her hand reaches out, splaying across his broad chest. She marvels, not for the first time, at how delicate it makes her look. Then her hand is traveling up, brushing along his jawline. And then his mouth.

_Chapped._ She thinks as her thumb slides across his lower lip. _He needs to drink more water._

The thought comes unbidden, and it causes her to still against him, for with it comes a protective surge.

He must sense her hesitance because he stills under her touch. There is a weight to the atmosphere that wasn’t there before - heavier. It makes their breathing come in shorter gasps.

She drops her hand to his upper arm and then starts to tug. He doesn’t budge, and she looks up to see a flurry of resistance flashing across his moody eyes. Then it is gone, and he is letting her lead him toward the cot. Just as he did last night, and the night before that.

There is a flash of shame as she drags him to the cot, realizing just how much she has asked of him these days. How much she has taken and how little she has given.

A well of guilt quickly replaces it.

Either he senses it, or lust overtakes, for he breaks their ritual to bend down and meet her lips in a demanding kiss. She finds herself battling to keep her head against the possessive way his lips encase her own, and the way his tongue swipes into her mouth with little preamble.

By the time she registers his hands on her hips, she’s melted against him. And it takes longer than it should for her to realize his intent.

He’s pulling up on her gown, drawing it around her waist while his fingers tickle her stomach in their ascent. He forgoes the fabric in a moment of weakness and lets his bare hands slip to her lower back, and then down until they grasp her cheeks and squeeze.

She squeaks in surprise, both in how he kneads her ass and how the bare flesh of her stomach presses against him while his hips gently roll his cock against her abdomen. He grunts into her mouth, tugging her up so her toes dangle centimeters off the floor - a whimper bubbles in her throat.

Hearing it cut through the air causes clarity to hit.

_I can’t do this._ She thinks desperately, knowing if she gives in it would make another chip in her armor - one that she can’t possibly mend.

She pushes against his chest, forcing distance between their mouths and making him meet her gaze. With as much command as she can manage, she raps against his chest.

“On the bed.”

One of his eyebrows rises as if her command amuses him. And suddenly she is reminded of the man that teased her from across a fire. The one that she is positive she nearly caught with his hand down his pants — the very man that left her to wrap her damn arm when she was too stubborn to accept help. It is as if she is watching a sliver of sunlight leaking through a curtain - a hint of what else composes this man.

He is making fun of her - or is at least amused by her.

Then with a mischievous glint, before her anger can spike, he gives her cheeks another good squeeze.

He falls back on the cot, pulling her with him. She lands with a squeak, shifting to catch her balance. But before she can adjust, he is moving her so that her wet core presses against his insistent cock. He rocks against her, eyes drifting closed. She lets out a mewl when the tip of him hits that spot just right, and a zing sweeps from her core to her toes and tickles up her spine. Her hands immediately fall to his chest, seeking balance.

It is the same position they have used all these times. She has ensured it. But now, as he rolls against her, moving her at his will she can feel the undercurrent of defiance with every brush of his tip against her clit.

With a growl, she braces her arms and forces herself to stop moving. His brown eyes peek out from beneath hooded lashes at the sudden change. She grabs one of his hands and tries to pry it off her hip.

A shadow falls over his eyes, turning them positively black. His chin trembles and he bites his cheeks to keep his words from slipping out. Her refusal to let him take control is making him quake with tension underneath her.

The anticipation builds in her core, curling little tendrils at the promise of what he might do should he give in. It makes her clench and she seeps at the thought; unconsciously shifting against him.

_Will he finally break his silence? Will he shove into her, already so close to her core and then thrust up into her unrelenting? Will he turn her around and pound into her from behind while he bends his massive body over her own?_

But he does none of these things. Eyes still burning with rage, he lets his arm fall to the side. He grips the cot like he has done all the days before. Thrusts his chin forward in defiance while he holds her eyes.

He doesn’t move when she nestles herself back to her usual spot - back in control. And when she is finally sure he won’t breach this unspoken agreement, she lets her hips start moving again, repeating the angle from earlier that had him nudging her bud again and again.

It isn’t long before they are both groaning. Their heart rates are speeding up while she grinds against him, enjoying the ebb between her legs. It is a familiar dance until she feels the errant thrust of his hips lifting off the cot. She cracks an eye open, meeting his blazing eyes and the bottom lip that is pressed between his teeth as he fights his instincts.

She purrs at the sight.

Brazen, she leans forward and places one arm beside his head. Angles her hips, so she is rapidly sliding along his length and holds his gaze, daring him to do something about it.

He wants to let go. The furrow of his brow, the particularly strong thrust that has her momentarily seeing stars, the paleness of his lip that is losing blood as he glares back at her in defiance. 

Holding him like this, forcing him to endure her riding him without letting him into her folds, it’s making the heat between her legs coil violently. She keeps the brutal pace, making both of their breaths catch. She can’t remember a time where she felt so powerful as she does in this moment, having this man below her on the brink of loss of control. 

She is just about to crest, the head of his cock knocking against her just right, that she doesn’t register when his hips twist up and his abdomen ripples under her fingers.

One second she is nearly there.

The next her back is pressed to linen sheets, and her legs are tangled in his limbs and her nightgown. 

“I hate this damned thing.”

It is nothing more than a growled whisper, but it is enough to make her eyes grow wide at the broken silence. She forgot how deep his voice is and how deliciously it vibrates down her nerves to her core.

For a second she panics, fearing he will rip the offending garment. But he must have a hint of control still left, for he bunches it up until her breasts are exposed.

She arches when his mouth finds her left breast, his other hand quickly encasing the right. He slathers it with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth and rolls her other nipple between his fingers. She keens, bowing as he moves to nip gently at the underside of her breast.

Her hips buck against him, seeking to climb back up that precipice.

It is a very different feel from when she rode him through the darkness of all these nights. When he thrusts into her wet core, stretching her as she arches, she barely has a chance to breathe before he is pulling back out. He slams into her with enough force to make her slip along the sheets and her eyes widen. Hips meet hips, her swollen sex singing with each thrust. And just as she is getting used to this momentum, he is tugging her so she is resting on his upper thighs giving him the angle to thrust down into her. Hard.

Relentless.

_Snap._ She thinks, imaging a band pulled taunt that has finally broken under pressure.

His massive hands are around her waist, holding her while he pushes into her core, filling her until he is dragging himself back out. Her walls flutter at the friction. When he sinks back in, hitting that delicious spot that has her see white, the one she wasn’t aware of until this abandoned, wild rhythm that he has set, her voice hitches as she spews incoherent mumbles.

_Reckless, throttling, wild. This rhythm. Just like the man behind it._

All of the nights she has been here, and this is what she has wanted. Even though she is spiraling toward a massive release and her mewls are ringing against the cabin walls, there is something else deep inside that is sighing in relief - satiated.

She is finally going to be satiated.

When the breath she had been holding finally rattles out, and she lets go and feels instead of thinking, her legs curl around him.

“Look at me,” He growls. And she does. His head is hanging over her, watching where their hips slap together. He raises his gaze to hold hers through long, damp hair. 

_Oh, those hooded eyes._

And when his hips crash into her again, she comes toppling over the edges, fingers gathering in the sheets. He grunts, cursing, and his hips start to break their rhythm as he twitches and spills into her. It gives her the chance to watch his face contort just before he slackens from his release.

He doesn’t pull out immediately but falls back on his haunches while he tries to catch his breath. Runs a hand through his hair before he is falling toward her.

He catches himself with an arm just a breath from her face.

Places a kiss on her forehead.

And then he is crushing her to the sheets. The cot groans in protest, meeting her little-muffled squeak of surprise. She winces as her breasts ache under his weight but doesn’t move as he nestles his head in her shoulder and presses lips to her ear.

“Sorry, Ophelia, to call your bluff.”

His voice is so thick and rich. Even though she just fell off the edge and her nerves are tingling, her core clenches in hope.

“Rey,” She mutters, letting out some of the breath she had been holding. Exhaustion is starting to creep up her limbs, and she wants nothing more than to stay like this and drift off into oblivion.

He must be of the same mind, because his voice is lower and muffled, “What's that?” He says with a yawn.

“It’s Rey, now.”

He doesn’t question it. Doesn’t say a word. But there is a shift as his arms snake around her waist, and he rolls them to their sides. He slips out then, and there is the chill of air against her wetness. It makes her shudder. With a grunt he leans over her, reaching for something and comes back with the blanket she remembers from the nights spent in his company by the fire.

She snuggles up, feeling too tired to run back into the woods. There is warmth against her skin, and sleep is finally within reach. His leg slips between her thighs, and they become a comfortable tangle of limbs. And with the fever breaking, rest finally takes its place.

—

She is too late.

She managed to make it all the way to her bedchamber before being caught. Or so she thought. When she sees Rose standing by the door, arms crossed over her chest; she feels her heart drop to her stomach. 

They know.

“Mother Holdo wishes to see you.”

_They will cast her out. She won’t have anywhere to go._ Her mind cries as she falls into step behind the girl she had hoped would become a great friend. 

Holdo’s office door creaks and Rey steps in after Rose, fighting to keep her feet from shuffling under the intense gaze of the Mother. The other nun nods for Rose to leave so Rose pads quietly out of the room, shutting the door behind her and leaving Rey to face this alone.

“My child, tell me where you have been.”

There is no venom to Holdo’s words, just curiosity and a hint of command. She knows that admitting it will destroy her chances at a future, but she can’t lie. Not here, in a church, with the Mother looking at her with compassion. And she is so tired of lying, of pretending, of running that her truths start to pour from her mouth.

Holdo is out of her seat in seconds, gathering Rey in her arms and pulling her into a chair. Lets her say her peace while tears stream down her face and all her thoughts tumble forward to be lay bare.

When there are no words left, and her tears have dried, she finally sits up to pull away.

“It is okay, my child. I knew the Lord sent you to us for a reason.”

Rey nods her head, wiping at her cheeks, “I am sorry for bringing you such dishonor. I was weak. And it was not my intent to harm you in my weakness.”

Holdo’s head tilts to the side and one of those secretive smiles that older women posses crosses her face. 

“We fail. We suffer. That is life.”

Then Holdo is turning, grabbing a pitcher of water and pouring both of them a cup. Offers one to Rey.

“But you, my child, have a choice to make. The cloth or the man.”

Rey freezes surprised that she has the choice to take the vow. She had expected them to toss her out the moment she left Holdo’s embrace.

“I will give you two days.”

“And what happens at the end of the two days?”

“You take the oath, or you leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! So we are almost there! One more chapter to go. Rey just needs to figure out what she wants. Please feel free to let me know what you think - I love hearing from you guys. Notes and kudos are always beloved!
> 
> 'Til next week - and the end.❤️


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely art is from the amazing uh_no_thanks. ❤️

 

 

 

Parting.

It is something she is growing accustomed to. Saying goodbye to a father, a brother, a husband. So much has been left behind in her wake.

So what is one more thing?

Her hand stops just an inch from the cabin door. For a second she considers turning on her heels and stalking back to the convent. She can burrow back under her sheets and let time bury her errors. If she didn’t show for a couple of days he would leave and all this would be done. She could begin her path of discernment, take her first oath, and continue her life.

But her feet don’t move. She’s walked all the way down here under the cover of moonlight with intent in her heart. So long she has been running that it feels right to finally plant her feet, to face down a monster that crawls into her heart and makes her guilt grow. Even if it will burn her in the process.

 _I must do this._ She commands herself, forcing her hand to knock.

There is shuffling, and a curse, but soon the door is creaking open. And there he is. It is earlier than their usual meeting time so he still is clothed in a plain shirt and pants. He appears surprised by her appearance, eyes wide and curious.

“Rey, what are you -“

She cuts him off with a searing kiss, closing the distance between them by reaching up on the tip of her toes and wrapping her arms about his neck. His arms circle around her waist and pull her in.

When they part they are breathless.

“You are early.”

She wants to close the distance again. To make him quiet so they can just enjoy this moment. She wants to burn this into her mind for all the nights ahead.

“I will start my discernment tomorrow.”

The words tumble from her mouth desperately, aching and downright destructive. But her eyes are staring up into his, imploring.

He pushes back against her grasp, forcing distance.

“Tomorrow?” His voice is thick with shock. He draws back to the table, leaning against it while his fingers thread through his hair and tug in frustration.

“So you made your choice.”

She feels the tendrils of pain licking up her heart.

“There is but one choice.” She whispers brokenly.

“It isn’t your only choice. You could come with me. I can offer you a chance at a different life.”

She stiffens. “I don’t need you to take care of me. Men always fail to do so. I don’t see how you could be different.”

His head tilts to the side, and she imagines he’ll cross the distance to tower over her. Some of that shadow she has seen cross his face will surely overtake. But he doesn’t, to her surprise.

“You are good at taking care of yourself. What I can give is a place where you will not have to fight others to do so.”

His words are soft, and filled with a longing that she feels in her bones. It feels truthful. And his eyes, those damnable expressive eyes, are so full of a toxic mixture of hope and regret.

“A place. What will you do? Marry me? Give me your home and your children while you are away at war?”

“A home. A small estate. A place on the edge of a wood where you can roam and gather herbs as you will. And I am not so fond of war as to not retire.”

His eyes are alight with hope and promise. Her heart clenches at the thought, at how he offers things she dreams of possessing. It plucks at something deep inside. Of days on her father’s estate as a child where she spent hours weeding through grasses and swimming in the ponds. Of an old woman that walked her through the paths and showed her the herbs that heal and the ones that harm.

It is a time she misses with the greatest of aches.

He must see he has her attention, because he is more animated now. His words are rushed, making his appeal.

“And what will they offer you here? You can garden and scrub. You can travel and listen to the tales of other sisters. But you will always return to an empty bed and an empty night. And the conflict in you, it won’t disappear, Rey. If anything it will fester here.”

“There is lots to be offered.” But her answer is weak and childish to her ears.

“Is that what you really want?”

His dark eyes are awash with a sharpness, as if he knows how tempted she is by the offer.

Her eyes drop to the floor, unable to hold his gaze. “It is what I want.”

“Then why are you here?” He blurts out. He crosses the distance between them, placing a finger under her chin to lift her gaze.

“Why are you here, when you could be comfortably contained in your convent?”

There is the need to look away, but his hold is firm on her chin. He isn’t letting her back down or run away.

“One last time,” She mutters, “Be the last.”

She feels his tremble through his hand at her words, watches as his muscles tighten.

“That is all I can offer.”

She is shaking too, vulnerable under the heat of his gaze and the disappointment that is marring his features. He seems torn between lashing out and desperately holding her.

“Be the last?” He husks, leaning closer, “For all the years to come, you are willing to let tonight be your last?”

She gulps, and then nods.

His finger trembles as it traces her lower lip. He moves closer, making her back press against the door. His arms come up to rest on either side of her head, encasing her.

“You ask this of me?” His voice is cracking. A single tear slithers down her cheek, and she has no clue why she is suddenly crying. Why she feels so vulnerable. They’ve been together for a week, only known each other for a little over that. This was meant to be nothing more than a tryst, a way for her to clear her physical needs before she chooses a life of celibacy. And, she told herself, a way for him to get whatever he needed slaked. Then he would be off, having had his fill.

Which is a lie. A man doesn’t just follow you to a convent and then proceed to try and seduce you. He doesn’t just let you have your way for days if they don’t seek something more. If they aren’t at least infatuated.

She feels disgusting to even ask it of him, and thinks that of all the horrible things she has done this might be close to the top of her list. Months ago, before all this mess started she had always been an honest person. One who rolled her eyes at other’s manipulations.

But what has she fallen to?

“I do. Please.”

She is begging, and she can’t keep the pleading from her voice. Just one last time. One last sin before she cuts herself off from the world.

Such a greedy thing she is.

When he bends to capture her lips, it is not like their other times. It is still passionate. But there is sense of ache to it that makes more tears stream down her face. Her fingers fold into his shirt, holding tight as he deepens the kiss. She trembles, despite how his warmth seeps into her skin. And when they come up for air she is panting.

And her heart is bleeding.

His hand reverently traces along her jawline, pausing only to trace her lip before slipping into her hair and pulling her closer. One arm slips around her waist and pulls her snug against him.

“No.”

He releases her then, and to her horror starts to readjust her cloak. His fingers tremble against the clasps. And when his gaze meets hers, she sees the grief welling there.

And the determination.

“I don’t want a goodbye.”

Then he is leaning over her, sliding back the latch on the door and pushing it open. She tumbles out the door, still shocked by his rebuke.

“Figure out what you need, Rey.”

The door closes in her face.

——

She doesn’t bother with looking where she is going. Half dried tears still marring her face, she wades through the creek with no care for the noise she makes. Picking through brambles, she finally stumbles onto the path back up to the convent.

What she wants.

But hasn’t that always been her problem? She always wants so much. More than this world has been willing to give. She wants to wander freely through the woods and pluck at the flowers. She wants to steep teas and mend the bruises and cuts of village children. She wants her pond back, as it was before another disturbed it, so she can swim and let her mind drift.

Those things are all gone now. Stripped away when Hamlet stumbled onto her drifting amongst the reeds. When he clipped her wings and stole her heart, just before he descended into his madness. How she desperately tried to pull him back until even she was faced with the lost cause he had become - the moment he stabbed her father through the heart. And now even her brother is dead. She is adrift.

With one choice before her.

Or so she thought.

As she sticks her hands deep into the folds of her cloak, her fingers brush against parchment. She freezes, pulling a delicately folded note from her cloak. Her name, not her born name but the one she chose, is written in crisp, sharp lettering.

Slowly she unfurls it.

The East Moors. The Silencer leaves port on the 4th.

Her thumbs run across the words, caressing them. Then she carefully folds it and puts it back in her pocket.

—

She spends the night in her own chambers, not kicking with a fever as she had before, but staring at the ceiling with a frown. The shadows cast by her one flickering candle remind her of the time she woke in the cave, of how she thought the man was pulled from hell itself.

It makes her smile.

She reaches for the note on her nightstand, unfolding it for what must be the hundredth time. Her fingers press against the parchment, and she stares at the words like they will pass along a secret.

A choice. She has a choice.

Perhaps it is the little bit of hope that the possibility provides, or maybe she has finally fallen to the madness that took her husband.

But when dawn finally leaks through the small window of her chambers, she sits up with a decision.

—

Holdo is seated, as always, on her chair at the desk. Various stacks of notes and bindings dot the desk, and it is from a ledger that she looks up when Rey gently knocks. Her knowing eyes flick over Rey, taking in the lack of cloak.

“I see you have made your choice.”

“I have, Mother Holdo. It would not be fair of me to give away my heart when it is so unsure.”

The older woman gets up from her desk, crossing the room to stand before her. Two hands fall to her shoulders, and Holdo smiles warmly.

“You know where you will go?”

She hesitates, not sure how to answer. She is about to undertake a very foolish, very impulsive endeavor. One that has every chance of turning unfavorably.

But she has seen more of heaven and hell than most people dream of.

So what is left of which to be afraid?

She lifts her head to Holdo, feeling a confidence bloom that she thought lost.

“I do.”

Holdo’s hands come up to cup her face, and Rey bends her head so the Mother can press her lips to her forehead. It is a goodbye and a blessing.

And it feels right.

Rey turns then, ready to strike out, but Holdo’s voice gives her pause once more.

“There is a horse and a pack in the stall for your adventure. And see Rose for some clothing. Perhaps the Lord can still afford you some protection.”

—

He pauses halfway up the gangplank at the clamor on the shore. For a second he doesn’t see much, other than men yelling. But then he catches a shock of red amongst the crowd, and his heart swells in realization. He would know that hair anywhere.

She is jumping down from a weathered old horse, and he just makes out her voice demanding to be allowed to board. Hears his name pass her lips. The men all look harried, shocked that a nun is demanding to see their commander. She dodges their grabs and attempts to push her back toward the shore, and makes a break for the ramp.

Dropping his belongings where he stands, he slowly walks back to shore and calls out.

“And what is this about?”

His men give pause, and so does Rey, who has her habit hiked up to her knees. It is a shock to see her in such garb, wild red hair flying in the wind. A little twinge of lust gathers in his core, but his amusement far overrides that thought.

She’s here.

“This nun is demanding to speak with you, Lord. Claims you know her.”

“She is not wrong,” He says blithely, and his men pause at that. He ignores their flurry of silent exchanges that pass between his men, their flicker of understanding, and the little smirks that tug at their mouths. This will surely give them enough fodder for the ride back to Norway.

“But she is of the faith!” One of them exclaims, clearly scandalized. The others snicker.

“No longer!” She hisses, her cheeks a delightful pink. “As if it is any of your concern.”

There is that fire he witnessed upon her waking. His heart warms to see the life back in her eyes, in the way she moves. Confident. Sure.

He supposes he could let this continue, but it will only cause them both more grief. And if some of his men keep looking at her with such interest, he might end up harming one of his subordinates. So he decides to end it.

“Go back to your work and mind your tongues.” He barks, and his men quickly scurry.

It leaves too much space between them.

“So you renounced the faith?”

Her gaze doesn’t falter, instead she moves forward, crossing the distance while holding his gaze. There is a strength to her, the one that drew him from the castle to seek her out, that few women get to keep in this cruel world. And he mentally makes note to ensure she never does.

He needs a stubbornness to meet his own.

“I never took it.”

At that he raises a brow.

“And pray tell, what reason did you have for turning down an eternity of serving God? Of chastity?”

“And freedom from men,” She adds dryly.

He smirks.

“And yet here you are, around men. It makes me think you are not so keen to discount all of my gender.”

The distance between them grows smaller. A twinkle appears in her eyes, one that makes his heart quiver.

“At least there is one that I have a fondness for. The others I can do without.”

This time he can catch her hair as it whips in the wind, lets his fingers weave through the strands.

“Is that so? And just who could this gentleman be?”

And he is leaning down. Knows his breath ghosts across her face, loves how her eyes widen, warm and inviting.

“Oh you know him well.”

Her hands are reaching out, threading through the buttons of his tunic and pulling him closer until their lips do meet. And their breaths mingle. And their hearts finally steady to a single beat. When they pull away, they are both breathless and wild eyed.

“I suppose I’m a foolish girl for falling for a foolish man.”

He laughs, hearty and deep. Pulls her to his chest where she belongs and tucks her under his chin. Tucks his head against her ear and whispers.

“Then, my little fool, let us get up to many foolish deeds.”

She hits his chest while he chuckles and though he is hundred of miles from his dampened castle, on a foreign land he loathes, he has never felt so at home.

 _A fool in love_ , he thinks as he pulls her toward the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, the end. I certainly hope you enjoyed this little trip into a shakespeare mash-up. Before I leave this story to gather dust, there are a few lovely readers that I want to directly thank for supporting this story.
> 
> Mdes (sofondabooks) - Your prompt started this whole story, and I am so grateful for that. You have been insanely supportive with all your beautiful moodboards and posts to inspire others to check out this story. This took me out of my comfort zone, but I had a blast toying around with this concept. Thank you so much, D!
> 
> Adnwasal - L, you helped direct me to asongofbooks prompt, and though I was hesitant to give it a try at first, I am so glad I took you up on the callout/challenge. You've been so supportive! Thank you, darling!
> 
> uh_no_thanks - I was soo thankful for all your support with Sweet as Sin, and then I was beyond thrilled when you found your way to Get Thee to a Nunnery. Your comments ALWAYS make me laugh so hard I snort - and it is such a pleasure having you along for one of my stories. Thank you for the beautiful calligraphy story art. I PROMISE I'm joining twitter soon!
> 
> Mantabel - You have been the best! Thank you for all your lovely comments, and for your kind posts on tumblr. I hope to see more of you around tumblr in the future, S!
> 
> Alle_Panda - I have LOVED conversing with you through comments throughout this story. You've delved into this with so much insight and thoughtfulness that it warmed my heart and inspired me to write faster. Not to mention you gave me so much to think about - especially with the life of nuns during the time period. Thank you so much!
> 
> And thank you so much to everyone else that was here to comment, nearly chapter by chapter (elliesmeow, 13oct, cryceratops, zombiequeen, megilins). You guys are the best readers I could ask for, and your support for this odd mash-up has been amazing. I couldn't have made it this far without all of your incredible support and kind words. I hope you found this ending to be worthy of all your love.
> 
> And for all those that dropped a note or left kudos, please know that they are all sooo appreciated. 
> 
> Seems right to end this story with some Shakespeare:
> 
> Adieu. ❤️


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